


Let the Human In

by CaspyCasp



Series: The Athena Maris Story [3]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 09:58:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 95,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15240897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaspyCasp/pseuds/CaspyCasp
Summary: Fire is catching. The Mockingjay lives. The revolution has come to Panem, with promises of change to come. It's what Athena Maris has always wanted, and yet she is away from all of it, trapped as a prisoner in the Capitol, ignorant to the outside world except for the little skewed information she's allowed to have and unaware of the status of her loved ones. She's tortured for information, punished for her crimes against the Capitol, and used as a weapon against the rebel cause - and more specifically, against Finnick Odair, who's with the rebels in District Thirteen, torn apart over what could be happening to Athena and others he cares about. Still  reeling from the events of the Quarter Quell, thrown into a country at war, and coming to the realization that even the leaders of the rebel cause in Thirteen aren't what they expected, both Athena and Finnick are both forced to pick themselves from the ground up, grapple with the experiences and actions they had both spent so long trying to forget, and forge a new path for themselves, the ones closest to them, and all of Panem. It takes ten times longer to put yourself back together again than it does to fall apart. The time for it is now.[Based off of Mockingjay]





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Before you start reading, I would like to iterate that this is not my story. I did not write it, so I own nothing.  
> It is originally written on Quotev by bucky kentucky, and you can find her profile at www.quotev.com/writingmyowndeliverance
> 
> I own nothing. All things Hunger Games related belong to Suzanne Collins, and anything else belongs to bucky kentucky.
> 
> Thank you.

**I**

 

She had strayed too far from the harbour. That was why Athena Maris was here - and here was... what? Hell, she was pretty sure, but that wasn't quite specific enough, since so much of this world that she lived in seemed to fit that description. In the Capitol, somewhere. When she had first woken up after the chaos of the Quarter Quell, she had been in President Snow’s mansion, but she was pretty sure they had moved her to the Training Center; not the District Four suite that she’d stayed in every time she visited the Capitol for six years, but somewhere else. A prison cell of some sort. She had no way of knowing for sure, though.

She had no way of knowing much of anything. She was alone in her cell. The cell was about the size of her room back in Victor’s Village, all white and without any furniture but the thin mattress on the ground and the television that occasionally broadcasted Capitol propaganda and the usual nonsense that they watched in the Capitol. Other than the broadcasts and Athena's screams as they tortured her, the cell and the surrounding areas were always silent. She seemed to be the only prisoner there, which didn't upset Athena. All she had wanted, all she had truly allowed herself to hope for, was that the others from the arena - Finnick, Johanna, Katniss, Peeta, and Beetee - wouldn't have to endure the Capitol's torture. She didn’t know where they would be, though. District Thirteen, hopefully. That had been the goal, after all. She hoped it wasn’t for nothing.

She didn't know much of what was occurring outside her cell. She knew what the television showed, but that was so clearly Capitol propaganda that she had no way of knowing what the actual truth was. Only a few things seemed absolutely certain. There was no more District Twelve. The Capitol had sent in firebombs that destroyed it. There were some clips of the bombings on television, and Snow had mentioned sending in the bombs when he had confronted her when she first woke up. He had whispered vague threats of doing the same to Four. She felt grief-stricken for the people of Twelve and terrified for her home and her people. There was no way for her to be certain, but she was pretty sure such a severe strike had not yet occurred to Four. Mayor Trenton was dead, though. According to Snow and a few Capitol propaganda clips, she had apparently committed treason by supporting the rebels. Athena had no idea what she was supposed to have actually done, but she felt horrible. All Mayor Trenton ever wanted to do was help her people... the only district that was entirely loyal to the Capitol at this point was District Two. Every other district was at war. At some point after the rescue mission, they had all been emboldened enough to start full-scale uprisings. She didn't know many details, though - not any ones she could trust, anyway.

She did know all the ways they tortured her, though she often wished she could drown them out. They went about it in different ways, alternating between them. Sometimes they would beat her as they interrogated her and hit her harder when she gave no reply; they'd punch and kick and slap her, hit her with batons, slam her against the wall or the floor, until she was bruised and bloody and broken. Sometimes they would hook her up to a machine that shocked her, increasing the voltage when she said nothing until she was on the verge of frying completely (Snow probably thought there was some poetic justice in this, doing to her what they did to the force field). Sometimes they would place these odd patches that were hooked up to different machines onto different parts of her body. At first, nothing would happen, until she felt her skin warming up and realized that the patches were burning her skin. When she didn't talk, they would turn the temperature up higher and higher and wouldn't stop until her skin felt close to melting off. Sometimes they would remove all the heat from her room, making the room colder and colder until she couldn't move and was on the brink of hypothermia, before finally bringing back the heat and leaving her to defrost slowly. Sometimes they would inject her with drugs or forcibly shove food or drink down her throat that made her veins feel like they were burning, made her organs feel like they were breaking down and collapsing on themselvss, made her whole body feel like it was being torn apart.

They seemed to bring her closer and closer to death with each interrogation, and the disappointment she felt when it was all over and she realized she was still alive almost matched up to the actual physical pain of it. But of course they weren't going to kill her, not while she had valuable information about the rebels. And not while Snow knew that dying was exactly what Athena wanted, that it would be the easy way out for her. No, Athena wasn't just being interrogated for rebel information, she was also being punished for every defiance, big and small, towards the Capitol, and dying meant an escape from the full scope of the punishment he had planned for her. He would probably kill her eventually; it seemed an inevitably more than anything. But not right away. Not before he had made her suffer a sufficient amount. And certainly not on her own terms.

It was one of the first things she had tried do when she was first moved to this cell - kill herself, that was. Though she used to think about it frequently, she hadn't thought she would ever actually do it. As tempting as it sometimes was, she always had too much anchoring her to her life, making her at least try to push forward. It had always existed in the back of her mind, though, as a door marked exit. It was clear that now that was the only door for her. She still had people that mattered to her - her mother and Calypso and Finnick and her friends - but they were gone now. Athena would never see them again. She hoped they had all written her off as dead and were simply moving on with their lives now, because she really was as good as dead. Snow would never release her. She would die his prisoner. She doubted anyone from Thirteen was going to try and save her; she wasn't worth the risk that would be taken trying to retrieve her from the Capitol. She had already served her purpose to the rebel cause by protecting the Mockingjay and keeping her alive in the Quarter Quell. They had no other purpose for her, especially not one that was worth infiltrating the Capitol and potentially losing countless soldiers and resources. Snow would never release her, and no one was coming to save her. She only had half a chance of making it out if she managed to outlive the war and the rebels won, but even then there was no guarantee. Perhaps Snow would use some of his final moments in power to kill her. She wouldn't put it past him. Either way, she was essentially a dead girl walking, and she had intended to make it official in her own time and her own way before the Capitol could do too much to her.

There were no weapons, any tubes they put in her went into a wall so that she couldn’t control the machines that pumped drugs in her, and her necklace wasn’t long enough to strangle herself with. But she was desperate to free herself from the Capitol’s possession the only way she knew how, and President Snow should have known better than to underestimate a truly desperate person. The Hunger Games should have taught him that the things a person could do when they were scared and desperate and had their backs against the wall was surprising. Athena had tried everything she could; clawed at herself with her fingernails in hopes of bleeding to death, punching herself as hard as she could, bashing her head against the walls and floor. She only stopped when she was forced to, when Peacekeepers came in, restrained her, and knocked her out. When Athena woke up again, being checked over by numerous doctors (including the blonde doctor and brown-haired assistant that had been there when she had first woken up), she was in a straitjacket. She had thrashed and struggled against it with all her might (which wasn't much, considering how weakened she had already become), but there was no way for her to break out of it. They kept her in the straitjacket until they felt positive that she wouldn't try to commit suicide again. And sure enough, when the straitjacket came off, she made no other attempt on her life. She ate the food and drank the water they gave, because she knew they would force it down her throat or inject her with the nutrients if she didn't. She knew it was useless, trying to kill herself. Her last moments of her life would not be her own and neither would her death. President Snow was seeing to that. There was nothing for her to do but endure every torture session and keep her mouth shut through the interrogations. If they were going to kill her, if they were going to take control of every part of her life and her death, then she would make sure they didn't get what they wanted. More importantly, if they are going to kill her, she would fight to her last breath to make sure the revolution didn't go down with her.

After the torture session was done for the time being, they would leave her to the mercy of her doctors who would patch her back up again and knock her out with a strong dose of morphling when she struggled against them or went into hysterics the way she often did now. She noticed that despite the pain they put her in, they did nothing where the visible effects of it couldn't be reversed. Whatever Snow wanted her for, he wanted to make sure she stayed pretty.

She wished there was some sort of regularity about when she was tortured and questioned. She wished an equal amount of time would lapse between each one or she knew about some sort of event that would occur that triggered it. That way, she might be able to keep track of the time that was passing in here, might be able to brace herself before each session. But that, of course, was exactly why Snow ensured that the times of sessions were irregular and abrupt and random. So that she was kept clueless and in the dark. For all she knew, she had been here for days or weeks or months or years.

This made it very hard to keep some sort of hold on herself. She had to find something, though, something that kept her somewhat sane. If she lost all sanity, it would probably be a lot easier for them to get information out of her, for one thing. At first, she tried repeating all sorts of facts about herself to remind herself of who she was and keep herself grounded.

Her name was Athena Crystal Maris. Her mother was Marella Maris. Her father was Douglas Maris. Her sister was Calypso Maris. She was from District Four. District Four was rebelling. She was not rebelling with them because she was in the Capitol, where she would stay for what little remained of her life -

_Focus. Don't lose focus._

She worked at the docks a lot, especially on _The Adventurer_ with Hudson. Her favourite colour was blue. Blue like the ocean. She would never see the ocean again -

_Focus. Don't lose focus._

She lived in Victor's Village. Before that, she lived in another, much poorer neighborhood. But then she was Reaped for the sixty-ninth Hunger Games. She won and became the victor. She became richer than she would ever need to be and moved into Victor’s Village with her family. Not her father, though, because her father, weakened and ill, had died before Athena's Games were over and she had pushed him there and she had never even gotten to say goodbye and -

_Focus. Don't lose focus._

She'd toured the country on her Victory Tour, spewing all sorts of lies about the generosity of the Capitol and the greatness of the Hunger Games. She became a mentor and returned to the Capitol for every Hunger Games to guide District Four's newest tributes. She made even more trips to and from the Capitol. All to keep the Capitol happy. All to keep Snow happy, so that he wouldn't hurt the people she cared about or herself, except that last bit had evidently been futile, because now she was at his mercy and being tortured constantly and would without a doubt meet her brutal fate here -

_Focus. Don't lose focus._

She had been seventeen when she was Reaped. She was twenty-three now. She thought so, at least. Maybe she was twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six... it felt entirely possible that she had been here for years and years -

_Focus. Don't lose focus._

She had survived not just one arena, but two. In order to punish Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark for their seemingly rebellious actions (as in, having the nerve to both survive the seventy-fourth Hunger Games), President Snow brought about a Quarter Quell wherein the tributes would be selected from the existing pool of victors. It was an announcement that killed Penelope and Talisa, sending them over the edge and driving them to suicide, their bodies swinging around and around from their ceiling fan as they hung from their necks -

_Focus. Stay focused._

Athena volunteered to protect Mags, Annie, and Lillian, and Finnick, without so much as a moment of hesitation, followed her right into the madness. It was revealed that a rescue mission was in place to save the Mockingjay, Katniss Everdeen, and any of the other victors from the arena to continue the rebellion. Athena and Finnick both agreed to it and to keep Katniss alive at all costs. They had succeeded. Finnick and Johanna and Katniss and Peeta and Beetee were hopefully relatively safe in District Thirteen. And she was in Snow's grasp and would remain there for the rest of her life -

_Focus. Stay focused._

Mags was their mentor. Mags was dead now, beaten and shot by Peacekeepers, it was useless for Athena to have tried to protect her because she ended up in the same wretched position anyway -

_Focus. Don't lose focus._

No matter how hard she tried, though, this method of coping didn't work for her. She found that everything about herself was getting muddled up and confused. Every little fact about her and her life was getting twisted and tainted and ruined in her mind. This was only pushing her closer to the edge. It soon became evident that she had to find a new method.

The other tactic she had come up with was simply listing all the people she cared about, all the people who had ever made an impact on her life. In no particular order, as though popping into her mind at random every time she did it. Dory Ermin. Rowan Lindell. Cara Savera. Marjorie Hopper. Kai Emerson. Marlin Sedna. Marie Ula. Selene Cress. Adrian Urchin. Ian Shad. Darya Hudson. Douglas Maris. Marella Maris. Calypso Maris. Lillian Brooks. Murphy Arno. Noah Moore. Roman Zale. Casper Zale. Penelope Nereus. Talisa Nereus. Annie Cresta. Mags Flanagan. Beetee Latier. Wiress Huxley. Johanna Mason. Katniss Everdeen. Peeta Mellark. Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair -

Some names came in louder than others, repeating in her head over and over again until she could finally move onto the next ones. There was something painful in this method, too. Every name she went over was simply a reminder that she would never see them again, a reminder of how far they were from her. Sometimes she began to doubt that they’d ever been real. It felt possible that they were all just dreams that she had come up with to retain her sanity in this awful place, that this prison cell was all that was real and all that had ever been real.

The only thing that reminded her that they really existed and weren’t just figments of her imagination was her necklace, with its blue spinel pendant and even the solid gold flame-patterned ring that Haymitch had made for her so Katniss and Peeta would know to trust her. It was one of the only things that she was wearing, along with a thin white nightgown. She was surprised Snow hadn’t taken the thing away from her. Maybe he thought it was a form of torture in and of itself, having the blue spinel as a reminder of the loved ones that were gone from her now, the golden ring as a reminder of why she was in this position and all it had come to for her in the end. But as painful as the thought of them was, she was glad to have this necklace. If she could see and touch the necklace, she knew it was real, and if the necklace was real, so were her loved ones. They were real. Some of them were dead, but many of them were still alive. She thought so, anyway. She hoped so.

In any case, she needed this, to repeat those names over and over, to keep herself at least somewhat stable. The options were clear. It was this or insanity. Somehow, it was still a difficult choice.

Though this method helped her keep a tentative grip on her sanity, it didn't do much for the pain. It was constant, lingering for hours after each torture session, consuming every part of her. It hurt to move. It hurt to stay still. It was excruciating, even with the amount of morphling they injected her with that sometimes made her feel oddly detached from her body, like she was floating just above herself, swimming in the pain she felt and always on the verge of drowning in it.

She had almost died for this, more than once. She had killed for this. Except it wasn’t for this, she knew. It was for much more than this. It was so that her allies could get to safety. It was so that Katniss could get to safety. It was so that the revolution could live on. And it was worth it, too, despite the pain she felt now.

Still, sometimes, especially when her body was still twitching and convulsing from the electricity they had sent running through it, it was hard to remember that. All she would do in those times was sit against the wall, bring her knees to her chest, squeeze her eyes shut and cover her ears to block out the rest of the world, and chant quietly, “Douglas Maris. Marella Maris. Calypso Maris. Mags Flanagan. Annie Cresta. Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair...”

She had also taken to making drawings in her head. It gave her something else to think about, something else to keep her sane. Which colours she would use. Which colours she might have to mix together to get just the right shade. What sort of strokes she would make with her pen or pencil or brush. She drew and painted all sorts of pictures in her mind; the sky at different times of day, her loved ones, the ocean, the old lighthouse, the cliffs that overlooked the sea, that last sunrise she saw in the arena with Finnick... there was one she went back to frequently, making mental changes to it every time, trying to make it something perfect in her mind. A tall man with the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen and a woman a year younger with curly hair, the two of them under still blue waters. They were clutching onto each other, trying to pull each other closer as they embraced, wrapped up in each other. She had nicknamed it _The Lovers._

They were gone now, though. Split apart. There’d never be any reunion. And even in the impossible chance she ever saw Finnick again, he would probably never want her now, damaged and ugly and broken as she was. Why would he? Why would anyone?

Athena thought about Finnick a lot. Same with her mother and sister and friends. She wondered where they were. She wondered what they were doing, in the midst of this great big revolution that was unfolding, the first Panem had seen since the Dark Days seventy-five years ago. She wondered if they were far away from the action or right in the middle of it. She tried to figure out which one she would’ve preferred; whichever one made them safer, to be sure, though she knew that any kind of safety that might have still existed in Panem was destroyed when Katniss blew up the force field. She wondered what they were doing, not just in relation to the rebellion, but in general. What were they doing while she was stretched out on her mattress, convulsing and twitching uncontrollably? She had taken it for granted, being able to just know these things or be able to find out easily. Were they asleep or awake? Were they alone or with others? Had she crossed their mind? She supposed she must have, at some point or another. She thought about Finnick, the way he had felt on top of her when they were hidden in the foliage, whispering that he loved her; she thought about the way his lips had felt on hers in those moments, soft and warm (but not the humid heat that pressed down upon them in the arena of the Quell or the stifling, suffocating heat in the arena of her first Games; more like the pleasant warmth of District Four’s springs and summers, the warmth that came when the sun kissed your skin) but achingly fast; she thought about the way his bright, fearful eyes had found hers in those final seconds before the explosions.

 _I hope you think I'm dead, my love,_ Athena thought. _I hope you think I'm dead and you’re moving on and becoming some great rebel leader like you’re meant to be. I hope you think I'm dead. I hope you all do._

It was the only thing she allowed herself to hope for anymore.


	2. II

**II**

 

Everything was changing. First it had been a spark, but now it was a flame, rising higher and higher. Something the Capitol could no longer contain. Uprisings were no longer something that was talked about in hushed, furtive tones and in sign language. It was real life. It was happening right now. The rebellion had come. The revolution was here.

And Finnick Odair was lying in bed.

It was where he had been ever since they landed in District Thirteen. He was lying in his bed in the hospital of District Thirteen in nothing but a white hospital gown. A month had passed since then. Or so they told him, anyway. He had lost track of time a long time ago. A month since they had arrived in Thirteen. A month since the rescue mission had been executed. A month since Athena was taken to the Capitol.

Athena hadn’t been the only one, which managed to make things even worse. They had taken Johanna and Peeta too. And most likely Annie and Athena’s mother and sister and perhaps some of the other victors, too. They weren’t sure yet, they told him. They were having trouble getting intel from District Four to verify. It was possible - likely, even - that they were dead. If they were lucky, they were dead. The best thing for them was death. It was the kindest, most selfless, most merciful thing that could be wished upon them. That was what everyone told him. He knew it to be true. It was of no comfort at all to him.

He thought about Athena all the time. He could not get her out of his head. When did it get to this? That the best path her life could go on was the one that ended abruptly? When he had failed to protect her, he knew. That was when. He should have protected her, he should have kept her safe, and he had failed. And now she was in Snow's hands.

If she wasn't dead, then what was Snow doing to her? Torturing her mercilessly, without a doubt. Interrogating her for every bit of information on the rebels she had. And punishing her, too; punishing her for her role in the rebel plan, punishing her whenever she gave him no information, punishing her for her relationship with Finnick... Snow was punishing him, too. Hurting Athena to hurt him. It was working. He thought about it ceaselessly, what sort of things Snow was doing to torture her. He knew Snow had no shortage of methods. He wondered, unable to control himself, if they were beating her or starving her or injecting all sorts of tubes in her or burning her -

When the list of scenarios nearly broke him entirely, he’d hit himself over the head over and over, sobbing without control. At first, one of his doctors would come along and inject him with more morphling to knock him out. When they stopped doing that, he just kept sobbing until he was pulled into unconsciousness on his own by his nightmares. He spent all his time swimming in and out of consciousness. He was never awake longer than five minutes at a time, and never asleep more than a few hours. Even when he was awake, he didn’t move much. He couldn’t get his muscles to work in order to move. It seemed they had stopped working properly. He felt the way he did the night of the explosion, trapped underneath all that rubble. Sometimes it was hard to tell when he was awake or asleep, for how long he'd been conscious or unconscious. It hardly made a difference to him, though. There was no relief in waking or sleeping. Whether he was awake or asleep, floating through dreams or staring at reality, it made little difference to him. Everything he saw, real or fake, was as awful as each other.

It was why they didn't give him anymore morphling. When they realized that the real issue was with keeping him conscious for longer than five minutes at a time rather than him sleeping, they started weaning him off the drugs, hoping that would help him stay awake longer. He missed it sometimes, the numbing effects of the morphling. He remembered the constant pain his aunt was in, the bliss that came in every bottle because it allowed her to forget. He remembered the way she eventually wasted away to nothingness, the way they found her body in an alleyway. He stopped missing the morphling. Besides, the hallucinations it brought about only made his dreams worse.

Taking him off the morphling made little difference, though. It was still difficult as ever to stay awake for very long, and he had long since stopped fighting it and had simply given into it. He was starting to think he was never awake, always semi-unconscious, because everything seemed so distant from him. Doctors tending to him and checking over his vitals, people talking to him, it never hit home the way it should, the way it normally would. It felt like watching and listening to it all happen through some thick haze, or to the person beside him. Not him. He could never focus on one thing for very long, and it always took him some time for things to register in his mind. The doctors all chalked it up to the electrical shock he received during the explosion. He almost laughed when they told him that, but he supposed they had a point. Him being reduced to this, it was a result of the explosion. Just not in the way they were implying.

That was no good for the people in Thirteen. All his doctors, led by his head doctor, a kind-eyed man named Doctor Silver, were trying to find some way to bring him back to himself. When they could think of nothing that worked, they consulted him, desperate for him to give them something with which they could work. They had thought he was insane, when he looked at them and simply asked for a length of rope. It was highly possible that he was. At first, they refused him. When he realized it was because they thought he'd use it to kill himself, he told them it didn't have to be long. Eventually, when he insisted on it, they gave in and got him one. He had been tying knots obsessively ever since whenever he was awake. It was possible he was doing it even in his sleep, too.

It didn’t do much for his focus, because tying knots came so naturally that he really didn’t have to think about what he was doing, but it made his doctors happy, to see him capable of actually doing things. And he had his rope. Not enough to make a sufficient noose. He didn't see what there was to hang himself off of, anyway. Maybe there was more to work with outside this hospital bed. The thought of it almost made him want to get up and actually explore the district, just to see. But then he remembered how Penelope and Talisa had hanged themselves, the look on Athena's face when she described the way they'd looked hanging from their ceiling fan, and lost the desire. He felt more weighed down to his bed than ever.

It made some difference, though, having the rope. It gave him something else to think about, what knots he would tie next. When he attempted a particularly complicated knot, it almost, almost brought him back to himself, focusing on doing it just right. Almost. It still wasn’t enough. He still couldn’t bring himself to move. He still felt like he was being weighed down by misery and hopelessness and despair, drowning it. Nobody here really knew what to do with him. They hadn’t been expecting this. They had been expecting cool, confident, intelligent, strong Finnick Odair. The Finnick Odair that he could usually be because he kept such tight control of himself. He had lost that control, though, and all that was left was... this. Whatever this was. Not much to look at, not much to be proud of, not much to be impressed by, not one to do anything with but pity, he imagined. Not one to become the rebel leader that they all wanted him to be.

They had Katniss. Katniss who had always been the priority, the bright, shining Mockingjay, the Girl on Fire, the symbol of the revolution. Except Katniss didn’t want to be any of these things, as far as Finnick was aware. She didn’t want to be anyone’s Mockingjay. She didn’t want to be the mouthpiece for the cause. She wasn’t cooperating. Much like him, he supposed. And then there was Beetee. Beetee who, quite literally the moment he could sit upright, had been wheeled into some top secret area to aid in the cause. Finnick wondered about Beetee sometimes. How he was holding up. If he'd ever walk again. If he ever thought about Wiress. If he missed her. Finnick hadn’t seen him since he’d been wheeled away. He was brilliant and all too willing to help the cause, but he wasn’t quite firebrand material.

So they were trying to reach him, too. Finnick could see the reasoning for it, too. He would be good for the optics of the rebellion. Finnick Odair, a living legend in Panem. Finnick Odair, Capitol darling himself, openly defying the Capitol, an action that would be enough to sway some of those who were still uncertain into action. Finnick Odair, the man who won his first Games at fourteen and in record time, making him Panem’s youngest victor. Finnick Odair, the man who entered the arena twice and lived to tell the tale. Finnick Odair, the man who killed eight. Finnick Odair, the man who lost everything. His parents were dead. His Aunt Marena was dead. Mags was dead. And anyone he had left that he cared about was worse off. And he was here. In District Thirteen. Lying in bed in the hospital.

He was even worse than Katniss now. At least they could reach Katniss. At least Katniss was stable enough to be discharged. He was still here. He was useless to their cause. He wondered if they regretted fishing him out of the arena rather than Athena. He hoped they did. He hoped that they too recognized the magnitude of the mistake they had made, leaving Athena to the Capitol’s clutches.

After he had first gotten his rope, he’d tied and untied knots without stopping for nearly hours - whenever he was conscious, anyway. As soon as he was woke up again, before he had even opened his eyes, he would start up again. Eventually, when his doctors had gotten tired of observing him and realized he wasn’t going to do much of anything else, they left him alone. Some time after that, he felt his eyes close involuntarily. When he opened his eyes again, Plutarch was by his bedside. It seemed as though Plutarch had appeared there within the span of a blink, but perhaps Finnick had fallen back asleep without realising it.

Finnick didn't get visitors very often. Who did he have here that would even visit him? He was alone in this district. The only people he ever saw frequently were his doctors. He supposed he should've felt grateful for Plutarch's presence. He couldn't bring himself to feel much of anything at the sight of Plutarch except a sort of deep, muted anger, though. Finnick said nothing to him. He barely even acknowledged him. He just stared up at the ceiling and kept tying and untying his rope. Eventually, Plutarch talked first. By the edge of impatience in his voice, Finnick wondered if he had been trying to talk to him and he just hadn't realized. He didn't care much.

“I've been meaning to see you.”

“Well, I'm here,” Finnick said to the ceiling. “I've always been here. I wasn't hiding.”

“Yes,” Plutarch said, “well, I wanted to give you some time first.”

_Is it because I tried to beat your face in the last time I saw you?_ Finnick thought, but didn't say it out loud. He didn't think he did, anyway. He was pretty sure he didn't, because Plutarch kept talking as though uninterrupted.

“I wanted to let you get used to the place first. It's a big change, especially straight after the arena. How are you finding Thirteen?”

“The bed could be more comfortable,” Finnick said shortly.

Plutarch smiled. “Admittedly, that is something I can agree with. This is far from what I'm used to. But all we need is time to adjust. I see you’ve gotten started on your therapy.” Plutarch said, nodding at the rope in Finnick’s hands. “How is that - ”

“What do you want, Plutarch?” Finnick said finally. “Why are you here?”

For a moment, Plutarch just stared at him, studying him. Realizing that small talk would get him nowhere, he changed tact.

“I want you to be a leader,” Plutarch said. “You were meant to be one. You have it in you.”

“Not anymore, I don’t,” he said flatly.

“You do,” Plutarch insisted. “It might not seem like you do, but you do. And Athena wouldn’t want you to - ”

“Don’t bring her up,” Finnick spat. “Don’t talk about her like you didn’t - like you didn’t _abandon_ her.”

“We had no other choice, and Athena would know that,” Plutarch said. “She made sacrifices for this revolution, and right now we need brave, dedicated leaders to keep that going. A face that can provide the people in the districts with hope.”

If he was just a little stronger and energetic, Finnick probably would've attacked Plutarch a second time. Instead, he said, “You want brave, heroic leaders?” For the first time, he looked from the ceiling to Plutarch's face and said, with all the venom he could muster, “Then you should've saved Athena. Not me.”

And it was true. Athena was much better at being brave and heroic than he was. And she could inspire and move people to action. She could make people like her, genuinely like her, not just charm and seduce them the way Finnick did. She would've made an excellent mouthpiece for the rebellion, and she would've been all too willing to help (not that he didn't want to help, necessarily. He did, really, but he found he couldn't do much of anything but tie and untie these knots).

Plutarch, perhaps seeing the evident and realising Finnick was beyond reach, left soon after that. He didn't come to see him again. Finnick was glad. He did not want to see him. He'd react worse the second time around. He sort of thought he'd let him off easy and he should've given him more of a hard time. Soon he realized that it didn't matter, though. No matter what Finnick had said or done to Plutarch, it didn't change anything about the position they were all in. He could hate Plutarch all he wanted, but Athena was still doomed. He clutched the rope so tightly it hurt and wept all over again.

Before Plutarch, there had been Katniss, who had come to see him once. She was discharged now and living with her family, but even when she had still been a patient, she wandered around a lot when she wasn't supposed to, running away screaming after waking up from nightmares. She only returned when people from Thirteen dragged her back and sedated her so she'd sleep again. One day, she only came to him. He’d been crying again, maybe that was why she walked over to him, following the sound of his sobs. Finnick, thinking it was one of the doctors again, immediately stopped crying at the sound of her approaching footsteps, wiped his tears away, and put on the most blank expression he could manage. He had been trying his absolute best from keeping them from seeing him so vulnerable. He was having so many relapses, though, that it was sort of hard to do. They all thought he was insane, and maybe he was, but he didn’t like that they all thought so. He didn’t want to be reduced to some mad man, the way Annie had been reduced to the mad girl from District Four for so many years. He wasn’t doing a very good job of convincing them of otherwise, though. Eventually, he’d given up, but at that point he was still trying.

Katniss slowed to a stop when she saw him. She looked so young, even younger than the seventeen year-old that she was. She looked young and burdened and shattered. He, by contrast, felt a thousand years old. He felt like as many years were weighing him down, pinning him to his hospital bed.

“Finnick,” was all she said, but her tone was venomous, as though she wished to kill him with the mere utterance of his name. It certainly stung him to hear.

“Katniss,” he croaked out, through the rough feeling in his throat. It sort of felt the way it had when that poisonous fog had infected it. “Katniss, I'm sorry. I wanted to go back for him, for Peeta. I wanted to go back for - for all of them, but I couldn't move... I couldn't move...”

He meant the apology, too. He regretted and hated himself more with every passing moment for not being able to save the others, Peeta Mellark included, but the rubble had had him trapped. He couldn't have moved an inch. Just like how he couldn’t now.

Katniss didn’t say anything. She had a hard look on her face as she stared at him.

“It’ll be better for him than Athe-Athena and Johanna,” Finnick told her, his voice breaking as he said it. “They’ll figure out he doesn’t know anything pretty fast. And besides, they won’t kill him if they think they can use him against you.”

“Like bait?” she spat. “Like how they’ll use Athena for bait, Finnick?”

Her tone was vicious, and he knew she was trying to make him crack, punishing him for deceiving her. It worked. He could not stop the way he wept then. He clutched onto his rope and tried to keep tying knots, but his hands were shaking so bad that he only ended up making useless tangles that took him ages to get out later.

When he had finally stopped crying, he said, “I wish she was dead. I wish they were all dead and we were too. It would be best.”

It was the first time he had actually expressed that out loud to anyone. He hadn’t told Doctor Silver, despite him asking Finnick over and over again how he felt. He thought about it a lot, especially after he’d voiced it out loud. He thought about if he really meant it. What did he want for Athena? For her mother and sister and Annie and Johanna and Peeta? He didn’t want for them to be dead. Not really. He wanted them back. He wanted them somewhere safe. But that was an impossibility now (there was apparently no plans for a rescue mission as of right now, and the way they spoke of it made it seem like it was impossible, a suicide mission, a risk not worth taking), so death was best. Athena's death would undoubtedly destroy him once and for all if (if? Or was it when? Was her death at Snow's hands an inevitability that some part of him was still selfish enough to try to deny?) it happened, but it was the best thing for her now. It was the most merciful fate that she could have now, since he had failed to protect her. He had failed even to keep the ones she loved most in Four safe. And there was nothing for him here in Thirteen. He wished he could die and join the rest of them.

Katniss left soon after he’d said it, drifting back to her bed. He thought he could hear her crying - well, he could hear _someone_ crying and it sort of sounded like her. Perhaps that hadn't been the best thing to say. But it was all he knew now.

That had been a while ago, though. At the beginning of the month, if he had to guess. He hadn’t talked much with Katniss since then, but she didn’t seem as angry with him anymore. Maybe she had enough reason to see and understand that he hadn’t much of a choice. More likely was that she saw they were in the same sort of pain. It was not something to be underestimated, how capable that sort of connection, that sort of mutual suffering, was at bringing people together.

The only other visitor he ever got was Haymitch. He was lounging in the chair by his bedside when he took notice of him. He looked like he'd been there for hours. Finnick wondered if that was true. He didn't ask, though. He just went back to tying and untying his knots.

“What exactly is your plan?” Haymitch said. “Lie here until the revolution fixes itself? What’ll you do then?”

“If we lose, then die, probably,” said Finnick. “If we win, then go home.”

“Where you'll... what?”

_Drown myself?_

Finnick didn't say it out loud. He didn't need to, because Haymitch seemed to have an idea of what was going through his head. He sighed.

“Hey, I'm really sorry about Athena and the others, they deserved better -”

“Don't,” Finnick said, his voice ragged. As far as he was concerned, Haymitch didn't have any more of a right to talk about Athena than Plutarch did. “Don't. Don't apologize. Don't act like you care. If you did, they would be here right now.”

For a moment, Haymitch just stared at him, before he said shortly, “Look, Odair, I'm not going to sit here and rehash all the reasons why what happened that night had to happen. It'd be a waste of everyone's time. So why don't you just say what you're thinking and move on?”

Finnick was silent for a moment; then, he yanked on his rope with a particular vigor as he finished off a knot and said, “I hate you for not saving them.”

“And now for the second half.”

Finnick gave the rope a tug and the knot came undone. His hand went slack, and the now limp piece of rope fell on his chest. He sighed. “I hate myself more for not keeping them safe.”

“There you go,” Haymitch said, leaning back in his chair. “And I hate us both too. So now we can actually move on - ”

“You haven’t been to see her yet, have you?” Finnick said suddenly.

Haymitch seemed caught off guard by the sudden question. It was several moments before he managed to get out, “When would I be able to? They’ve got me locked up most hours of the day. Besides, I doubt she’ll appreciate seeing me now. After everything. After Peeta.”

“I think she’d come to appreciate your presence,” Finnick said blankly.

The ghost of a humorless smile crossed Haymitch’s face. “You don’t know her like I do.”

That was true. All he had when it came to Katniss were those three days in the arena, and with the cameras that followed them at all times, Finnick knew that many parts of her personality were carefully concealed. He had been doing it himself for years; he was adept at recognizing when other people were too. Haymitch, however, as her mentor and from her home, had gotten an uncut version of her. Or something close to it, anyway.

“Probably,” Finnick agreed. “But I do know that you wouldn't be yelling at me about my plans if you were on speaking terms with her again.”

“I think you underestimate me,” Haymitch said. “I'm perfectly capable of talking to different people about their terrible plans. Sobriety, unfortunately, has made me feel like I have a lot more time, so I can do that kind of thing.”

Haymitch wasn’t adjusting that well to life in District Thirteen either, primarily because the strict prohibition of alcohol (even the rubbing alcohol they used here in the hospital was kept under lock and key) forced him to sober up in a way he hadn’t done probably since his victory in the Games twenty-five years ago. It was showing in his appearance; he looked slightly yellow and appeared to have lost a lot of weight, giving him a sort of shrunken look. Adjusting from relying on alcohol to keep him going to having none at all with nothing to ease his transition was no minor thing, and they hadn’t declared him fit for public display yet. He was usually kept in seclusion as he dried out, but as he improved, he was allowed a little more freedom. They only let him go to the hospital, though, so when he came around, he came to see Finnick.

“You can't avoid her forever, you know,” Finnick said. Some inexplicable feeling of anxiety was rising in him, so he picked up his rope and kept tying it and untying it in an attempt to keep it at bay.

“Oh, that I know,” Haymitch said. “My job here is to guide the Mockingjay. I'll always be her mentor, I guess. But since right now she's refusing, I don't have all that much to do.”

“So basically,” said Finnick, who stared at the ceiling as he tied and untied his knots, “you have no friends. Which is why you're here.”

“Well, don't act too offended,” Haymitch said, raising his eyebrows. “It's not like you have any friends here either. We can't afford to be picky right now.”

Finnick said nothing at first, working on tying a butterfly knot. They both knew it was true. If he had someone here, maybe he wouldn't still be in this hospital bed.

“Maybe you'd have more friends if you talked to her,” he said finally.

“Let's make one thing clear,” Haymitch said. “You're not the one who gives the lectures here. I'll talk to her when the time is right.”

_You mean when you can't avoid her anymore?_

“I guess that is you,” Finnick said bitterly. “The one who makes the plans...”

“Speaking of which,” Haymitch said, noticing the bitterness in his voice but not saying anything about it, “when the time comes, they might need your help with her. They said it might best if she has familiar faces around her, and I agree.”

Finnick gave a noncommittal shrug and said nothing. If he could, he would. But he was doubting his ability to do much of anything more with each passing moment.

“I'll take that as a yes.”

Finnick gave another shrug and began working on a sheet knot. He felt suddenly even more exhausted than he had before. Haymitch left a little while after that, realising Finnick was even less responsive than usual.

Before he left, however, he said, his voice gruff, “Look, Finnick... I'm not going to tell you what to do. I think you’re too smart to need anyone to. If this is all you want to do... if this is all you _can_ do, then fine. You'd know better than me, and I know enough about you to know that it's a wonder you're still here with us at all, but I think you've got a lot more fight left in you than this. You wouldn't be here if you didn't. And I think it'd be a real shame if this is how it ends off for you.”

Finnick didn't say anything. He blinked, and maybe the blink lasted longer than just a blink, because when he opened his eyes again, he was alone. He went back to tying and untying his knots.

After that, he didn't get a lot of visitors. Katniss came around once or twice. They didn't talk a lot. Haymitch came around and visited him sometimes, too. They talked a little more, but still not much. Haymitch would eat some of the food that was brought out to Finnick. They were very strict about portions in Thirteen. They had nutrition down to a science. Each meal left a person with enough calories to take them to the next meal. Nothing more, nothing less. Serving size was based on age, height, body type, health, and the amount of physical labor that was required by your schedule (the latter didn’t apply to Finnick, who didn’t have a schedule yet because he was still in the hospital). Though the food wasn’t all that great, the minimal servings that were offered tended to leave people, particularly the newcomers to Thirteen, unsatisfied. Finnick didn’t mind that Haymitch took from his food. He wasn’t that hungry these days anyway. Other than those two, the only people he ever saw were his doctors.

He thought about Haymitch's final words a lot. He didn't think he had any fight left in him. If he did, he would've done something by now. He was quite certain he was hopeless. What did he have to keep him going, really? Before, there was always something; another Hunger Games where he had to be a mentor, another trip to the Capitol he had to endure... and there were things, people that made him want to get back on his feet; Athena who he always wanted to see, her mother and sister to look after, Mags, Annie, the cave, the beach, _The_ _Morning Light_... those were all gone. He had nothing now. He might see District Four again, admittedly. He was starting to think even that would be ruined for him, though. There would be far too many ghosts now, they would haunt him too much for him to be able to stay.

He had no parents. He had no aunt. Mags was dead. Athena was gone. Annie was gone. Johanna was gone. He wondered if this was how his father had felt, in the year between his mother's death and his; if he'd just been wasting away from grief until death finally had mercy on him and took him too. As far as he could remember, his father had done a good job of being at least semi-functional, but maybe Finnick had been too young to see the truth. Or maybe his father had been hiding it for his son’s sake. Maybe concealing things, keeping tight control of their emotions, was something that ran in the Odair family. It bothered him that he didn't know for sure. It bothered him that there was no one left in the world that he could ask. Finnick wept until he thought he'd run out of tears, then wept some more. He had spent so many years keeping his emotions tightly reigned in that he forgot he had this many tears left in him. His crying near hysterical, he brought the rope to his neck, thinking he could try to strangle himself. He decided against it at the last second, though. It wouldn't work. The doctors would stop him, and then they would take his rope away, and the rope was the tightest hold he had on his sanity, so the rope couldn't go. The suffering would have to continue.

The suffering always had to be drawn out too, it seemed. At least with Mags, though the beating had been horrific, when they put the bullet in her brain it ended quickly. That was the closest thing to a comfort Finnick could find in her death, that the dying itself was fast. Even that relief was ruined, though, because he was always reminded of the fact that the Capitol was lying about how Mags had died. They were telling everyone, instead, that she had simply suffered a stroke... pretending they hadn’t brutally murdered her...

And everyone else always had to suffer. The hook that dug into his mother’s chest didn’t kill her until he and his father managed to get there just under an hour later (and maybe an hour wasn’t long compared to a lifetime, compared to an eternity of nothingness, but it had seemed to be an eternity in and of itself to Finnick). His father was overwhelmed with pain and with grief for a year before he followed his mother, and even then, the stroke didn’t kill him right away. Aunt Marena had wasted away for years because of her alcoholism, and no one knew how long she’d suffered in that alley for until her heart stopped beating once and for all. As for all those he loved that were in Snow’s grasp... he would not grant them a quick, painless death. He would draw it out, torture them, force them to stay clinging onto life, until finally they had suffered enough and he was satisfied and they could die. And here he was, wasting away in Thirteen. It would be a long while until his body finally gave up on himself and shut down once and for all. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe it would happen the next day. Maybe it would happen in five minutes. It made little difference.

For now, all Finnick did was cry without control and tie and untie his knots. It was all he was capable of now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we go with the last story in the series. Excited yet?
> 
> I would like to note that this story may be updated slower than the other two were, as this one is still unfinished.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and, hopefully, your consideration in regards to posting.


	3. III

**III**

 

Athena was humming. It took her a while to place a name to the tune she was humming; _The Turn of the Tide._ She smiled a little to herself. It was Calypso and their father's favourite song. She remembered the way they'd always sing along and dance to it, looking, for once, like they didn't have a care in the world. Lyrics to the song were carved on her father's grave. The smile faded at the thought. She could see it, the marble tomb back home in Four... he was dead. Her father was dead. He would never hear that song again. She would never hear him sing it again. And as for Calypso... Athena had no idea what would become of her, and she never would know, because she’d never see her again -

She brought her hands to her ears, squeezed her eyes shut so tightly colours burst behind her eyelids, and chanted, “Calypso Maris. Douglas Maris. Marella Maris. Mags Flanagan. Annie Cresta. Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair. Finnick - ”

Though she was covering her ears, it wasn’t enough to block out the sound of the door opening and people walking in. She moved her hands down to her sides and opened her eyes to see two Peacekeepers striding into the room. She was bracing herself for another beating, but they didn't hurt her. Instead, they grabbed her by her arms and pulled her roughly to her feet. Before she could say or do anything, she was being blindfolded and pushed forward. They led her along briskly, with Athena following along blindly. At one point, she was pretty sure they ended up in an elevator. Eventually, she felt a hot breeze hit her skin and knew were outside, but moments later, she was being shoved in a car.

They only removed the blindfold from her when the car came to a stop and they were shoving her out of it roughly. She saw that they were in front of the long walkway to President Snow's mansion. She looked all around her as the Peacekeepers pushed her along, keeping her arms pinned to her sides. She drank in the sights of the city around her, the busy streets and the tall buildings. In the distance, she could see the Training Center and suddenly became confident that was where they were holding her. This was the first time she was seeing the outside of her cell, and behind her the city stretched out before her, seemingly for miles...

For one wild, uncontrollable moment, she contemplated escaping. Breaking free while the Peacekeepers were distracted and running out. She stamped that out quickly though, immediately acknowledging it as mad and ridiculous and impossible. Even if she could free herself from the Peacekeepers’ tight grasps on her, she could see they had their other hands trained on their guns. They would shoot her in an instant before they let her escape. And how far would she be able to run, really, weakened as she was from all the torture she’d endured? It was a plan that had no chance of succeeding and would really only end with her getting tortured worse than ever as punishment.

Just as she came to that conclusion, they were let into the mansion by the guards that stood poised at the door. Somehow, Athena managed to immediately feel worse than she already had now that she was within the walls of President Snow’s home. The heavy scent of roses seemed to radiate from this place. It was all she could do not to gag on it. They forced her along. Athena stared around miserably, thinking about the inevitable meeting with President Snow. That must have been why she was there. She hadn’t seen Snow since she had first woken up from the arena. He never led the interrogations, nor was he ever even present for them. He always left it to some other Capitol officials or Peacekeepers. He wouldn’t want to meet with her now unless she did something wrong (which she supposed she had, since she wasn’t giving in any rebel information). Or maybe he wanted something from her. Or maybe he wanted only to taunt her, to push her past the breaking point so they might have an easier time at interrogations. She had no idea. She supposed she would find out.

At that moment, she noticed a group of three turning a corner and appearing from the other end of the long hallway through which they were currently walking, coming in the opposite direction as herself and the Peacekeepers on either side of her. At first glance, Athena thought it was just more Peacekeepers, until she took a closer look. Two of them were indeed Peacekeepers, but the other, the one in the middle was someone else, because there was no uniform or weapons. Athena’s heart stopped momentarily as she looked closer, because she recognized the person at once.

She looked almost completely different than she had the last time Athena had seen her, to be sure. The wounds from those killer insects in the arena had been healed and, from the looks of it, didn’t even leave any scarring (or the Capitol had seen to removing and concealing them, at least), but she didn’t look much better regardless. Her head was shaved, her figure emaciated, and her flesh bore bruises and oozing scabs. But there was no denying that it was her. There was no denying that Athena was staring at Johanna Mason.

She looked almost hollow, but she seemed to come back to life a little when she saw Athena there. There was a flicker of recognition in Johanna’s eyes as she stared at her. She didn’t lower her gaze once. Something close to a smirk crossed her face, but there was no humor or mirth in it, and there was still a dead-eyed quality to her wide-set brown eyes. They never looked away from each other, not once, and Athena could feel her heart in her mouth and panic and confusion rising in her like a tidal wave. They kept staring at each other until they were passing each other, and Athena craned her neck to stare at her retreating form in horror until one of the Peacekeepers forced her roughly to face forward again.

Athena was reeling, trying to piece together what she had just seen. Johanna Mason. Here. In the Capitol. Looking clearly injured, almost ill. It could mean only one thing, but it seemed impossible. She had been so certain that they were all away from the Capitol’s grasp, that she was the only one here... and yet Johanna’s presence proved otherwise. There was no way she had submitted herself willingly (she didn't see how that could even be a possibility in Thirteen), which could only mean one thing. And really, why was Athena surprised? As far as she knew, Johanna hadn’t cut out her tracker. And she’d been near Athena when the explosions happened. It made sense, as horrible as it was, as much as it tore at her, as much as Athena did not want to believe it.

She realized at once that Snow had arranged all of this; for Athena to come to the mansion just as Johanna was leaving, to make sure that Athena had her blindfold removed so that she was sure to see Johanna and realize she wasn’t alone... How could she have been so stupid? To believe that the others were safe? That they might not have to suffer this same fate? She hated Snow for keeping this from her, and herself for not realizing it sooner.

What were they doing to Johanna? She looked even worse than Athena felt. Unable to help it, her mind ran through a series of possibilities, each one more horrifying than the last, of how they might be hurting Johanna. Athena felt sick to her stomach with every possibility, and she would’ve fallen to her knees if the Peacekeepers weren’t forcing her to stay upright and keep shuffling along. Who else was here? Was it only Johanna? Her heart sunk right down to the region of her stomach, wondering who else might be in Snow’s possession. Were they all trapped in the Capitol? Surely District Thirteen would’ve acted by now to save them if it was a great number of them, especially if Katniss was being held prisoner too...

Before she could deduce on her own who else was in Snow’s possession, they stopped in front of a set of double doors. The Peacekeepers released her long enough to open the doors and soon were escorting her inside. They were in what appeared to be a large, spacious study. There were elegantly carved bookshelves stuffed with thick volumes and plush furniture. There were windows, providing a view of the city. It was a long way down, but it wasn’t a fall where she particularly cared whether she lived or died at the end of it. She forced herself to push down any thoughts of trying to jump out. She would subdued before she could even open a window, and that was assuming the windows weren’t locked already.

Sitting at the desk was President Snow, who was gazing at her from his seat, his hands folded neatly in his lap. The Peacekeepers backed away from her, standing guard at the door. For several suspended, silent moments, Athena and the president simply gazed at each other from across the room.

 _Who else do you have?_ Athena thought, hating him more the longer she looked at him. _Who else do you have here? Who else were you hiding from me? And what are you doing to them? What have you done to Johanna?_

“Miss Maris,” said President Snow, with one of his twisted smiles. “How wonderful it is to see you again. Don’t be shy, now, come forward.”

Athena lingered in her place for only a second longer, before shuffling forward until she was standing by the desk opposite him. The smell of roses was overwhelming now that she was closer to him. It made her head hurt. Finnick had been forced to sleep with enough Capitol officials, learnt their secrets, and reported them to Athena to know that he used the scent to cover up the scent of sores that would never heal, a result of drinking the same poison he would use on his enemies moments later to quell suspicion. He’d drink the antidote immediately after, but some poisons you could never recover from completely. The scent of roses was meant to cover it up.

 _God, just how many people has he poisoned?_ she thought, sickened by the powerful, heavy scent. She was sure Finnick had the number, or at least a rough estimate. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know, though. She always thought Snow couldn’t surprise her with his cruelty anymore, but he always found a way. He had hid the fact that he had Johanna, and perhaps more people, from her for all this time, only to reveal it in the worst way, when she was the least prepared for it.

She still said nothing, just staring down at him. Who else did he have? She wished she could read his mind, as horrible as a place as she knew it must be. Then she would know. Would he tell her if she asked? Would he see more benefit in keeping the information from her, taunting her with the countless possibilities, holding the information tortuously above her head where she could not reach it? Would she have to find some other, more subtle way of gauging the information?

Snow gestured towards the empty chair beside her. “Please, sit down. Make yourself comfortable. I know you don’t get many opportunities for comfort in your current living quarters.”

Athena didn’t sit. They might force her down if she went too long without obeying, she knew, but she couldn’t move. She felt glued to her spot. Who else did he have? She wasn’t entirely certain if she was ready to hear this, but she had to know. It would tear at her, not knowing. She had enough things torturing her as it was. She didn’t need any more. She spoke at last. She didn’t bother with subtlety. She would resort to that later, if she must.

“Who else do you have here?”

The twisted smile on Snow’s face widened horribly. “Oh, has it only just now occurred to you? Tell me, you weren’t arrogant enough to believe you saved them all, were you?”

Athena didn’t answer, just collapsed into the chair at last. She didn’t have it in her to look strong. She already knew about Johanna, but who else was left? If there were more, anyway, which seemed all too likely now. There was one name in her mind already, and she was desperate to know if he was safe or not, but there were other priorities. She needed to know if all this had been sacrificed for nothing. Besides, she didn’t know if she was ready to hear about him yet.

“Katniss?”

Snow didn’t reply, simply giving her a measured gaze from the other side of the desk. She found she didn’t need him to answer. She’d been worried about this at first, but she had sudden clarity now. She didn’t think she was capable of feeling relief anymore, but something close to it flooded through her.

"You don’t have her,” Athena said, with full certainty.

Snow raised his eyebrows. “Oh? And what makes you so sure, Miss Maris?”

“If you had her, I’d be dead by now,” Athena said calmly. “Katniss is at the center of it all, the face of the rebellion. There’s no undoing the damage she’s caused, you know this by now. And you know that when she dies, so does their hope. You’d kill her the moment you got her hands on her. And if she’s dead and the revolution’s dead, then I’m no use to you, am I? And I’m a traitor now. You’d kill me too. Me still being alive means that I still have some sort of value to you, and after everything I’ve done? The only way I have value is if you’re trying to use me to stop the rebellion, and so much of this rebellion, especially in these early stages, loses steam without her. If I’m still here, it’s because you don’t have your hands on her.”

Snow said nothing to confirm or deny this, but she didn’t need him to. She knew she was right. Katniss Everdeen was still at large. The mission was a success. This hadn’t all been for absolutely nothing.

Athena didn’t feel too pleased, though. There were still more names. More fates that needed confirmation.

“Peeta?”

Again, Snow was silent. She had the feeling he wasn’t going to outright answer any of these questions and instead leave her to figure it out from his face alone. And sure enough, when another horrible, twisted smile spread across Snow's puffed up lips, she found she knew the answer on her own. Her heart felt like it was made of led, weighing her down in her plush seat. Her guilt felt like a physical thing, hitting her harder than even the Peacekeepers’ batons. Both Peeta and Johanna. She had failed them both. Peeta... who she was supposed to protect just as much as Katniss. Peeta who she should have never let out of her sight.

“What are you doing to him?” Athena snarled. “Him and Johanna, what are you doing to them?”

“Miss Maris,” Snow said slowly, “you do realize, don't you, that this could be resolved if you all simply gave the information I seek?”

“They don't even know anything,” Athena said at once. It was true of Peeta, who had been left in the dark about the mission in case this exact scenario came to pass, but she was lying when it came to Johanna. She didn't care as long as it kept Johanna a little more safe. “Neither of them. Johanna just got told to try and protect Katniss, no one told her why or any details, and Peeta didn't know anything at all - ”

“Athena,” he said, cutting her off, “my dear girl, I think we can agree that it would be best for both of us if we don't lie to each other. It would save so much time, and I think you've come to truly realize just how precious that is.”

Almost instinctively, Athena glanced behind her. The two Peacekeepers at the door brought their hands to their batons. She got the message loud and clear; if she told any lies, or what Snow thought was a lie, she would be punished brutally. Snow was convinced that Johanna and Peeta held key information the way she did. And now that she thought about it a little more, perhaps it was better this way. Snow would be more inclined to keep them alive if he believed they held valuable information. At first, she thought that wasn't a good thing, being kept alive when they were stuck in this hell, but maybe District Thirteen really was planning a rescue mission, since there was more than one victor trapped here. She wondered how Katniss was holding up, in Thirteen with the knowledge that Peeta was here. With any luck, she'd be causing chaos and forcing them to action to save him. If Peeta could just hold out until that point... she didn't know if they'd make any move to save her or Johanna, but she hoped that at the very least, they'd save Johanna.

Yes, it would be better this way, letting Snow believe what he wanted to believe.

“After all,” Snow was saying, “I've only ever been honest with you. I think it's fair of me to ask the same of you.”

For a split second, it was dangerously tempting to attack him right there and kill him. The two Peacekeepers would kill her before she could, she knew, but that wasn't what kept her in her seat. Some part of her suspected that it was what Snow wanted, for her to crack, lose control, and attack him. Maybe so he had some excuse to punish her harshly and torture her some more. More likely so that he could have the satisfaction of knowing that he had gotten under her skin, that he had truly disturbed her and was breaking her. She refused to give that to him. She stayed resolutely in her chair, forced herself to be calm, and merely uttered another name.

“Beetee?”

He didn’t say anything, just gazing at her from across the table. But she knew the answer to this one too. Beetee had been close to Katniss when everything fell apart, literally and figuratively, and Athena had removed his tracker. If they had rescued Katniss, they had rescued Beetee, too. That was another positive, at least. She remembered how awful his injuries in the arena had seemed. She hoped they were taking good care of him in Thirteen.

“That leaves just one more person, doesn’t it? Since you’ve already seen Miss Mason,” said Snow. “That leaves only one more in your little alliance. I’m surprised you left him for last... unless you can’t stomach the answer?”

Athena lowered her gaze. As much as she hated admitting it, even to herself, President Snow had hit the nail on the head. Even now, as the question, as his name, loomed over their heads, it was still difficult for her to pluck up the courage to ask. Even terror didn't feel like a good enough word to describe how she felt at the prospect of him being in Snow's hands. Finding about Johanna and Peeta had been bad enough; she didn't know how she would be able to handle this. Still not knowing, being left to guess and speculate, would drive her to insanity much faster than she would like, so she forced herself to speak.

Slowly, Athena looked back up at Snow and mustered up the courage to ask, “Do you have Finnick?”

Again, he said nothing, but still she noted something strange. He didn't look as satisfied as she figured he would be at her obvious fear. He had been torturing her for who knew how long now specifically to break her. Surely it should delight him, seeing her so weak at the thought of him having Finnick in his grasp, and he did seem that way, but not as much as he should've been. That didn't make any sense - unless, of course, he didn't have as much power over her as he wanted. Which could only mean one thing.

Finnick was not in the Capitol. He was not in Snow's reach.

“You don't have him,” Athena said slowly. Then again, her voice stronger, more confident. “You don't have him.”

And she was smiling now, unable to help herself. At the very least, she had this... she had the knowledge that he was okay...

“And what makes you so certain?”

“If you had him,” Athena said, “I'd know. You'd make sure I knew. If you had him, you would've used him against me by now. You'd have known better than to hide him from me.”

“Oh, and why's that?”

“You know it would kill me,” Athena said. “You know it would destroy me, him being here, you torturing him. You’d have used him, hurt him somehow, to get me to talk. You wouldn’t be hiding him from me. You'd be hurting him to hurt me. You’d be using him to make me lose my mind. But you haven’t done it. Which means he’s not here.”

“Very good,” said Snow, and although Athena had just managed to figure out who he was keeping prisoner from nothing but the looks on his face, there was still something condescending about his tone, like she still didn't have it quite right. “Very good. But then you've always been intelligent. And you were taught about this game from some of the best there was.”

“Don’t,” Athena snarled, though she knew she couldn't really stop him from doing or saying anything. She did not want to hear him talk about either of her former mentors. “Don't put their names in your mouth - ”

“Why the concern?” said Snow, but he was smiling. “I thought we had established that neither of them are in my possession.”

“You know what you did to them,” Athena spat. “You know what you did to Finnick. And you killed Mags.”

“Ah,” Snow said slowly, as though this fact had only just occurred to him, “yes, that. Well, that was a very regrettable thing indeed. She really was a wonderful woman. But it was necessary. You all truly did blindside me with your little plan - Plutarch had me fooled, I will admit it - but even so, I could sense something was unwell, and I had the idea it involved the tributes and their mentors. I decided to question Mags - a smart woman, but very old - I thought perhaps age dulled a once sharp mind and I could coax the answers I was looking for out of her.”

“She was smarter than you’ll ever be,” Athena said, venom in every syllable that left her mouth.

Snow gave one of his twisted smiles, as though the comment amused him. “Well, I’m not so sure about that, but I will admit that I underestimated her. She gave me nothing. After that, I realized there was nothing for me to do but terminate her. I thought perhaps her death might scare off any others involved in the plan from continuing. And I knew if she was involved in this plan, you and Mr. Odair might be as well, and thought that you would have much less of a chance in succeeding if you had no one to look out for you in the arena. But still, you managed to endure.”

“Mags didn’t mentor quitters,” Athena said, staring at him hatefully. “She made sure we were fighters.”

“Perhaps,” said Snow. “And fight you did. And look where it got you, in the end. You fought for a cause that does not even value you. If they did, they would have tried to rescue you. I, at least, can see your worth. I don't think even you understand the full scope of your value, Miss Maris.”

“Really?” Athena said, unable to keep the disdain from her voice. “And what makes you think that? What do you see in me that I apparently don't?”

“You think I only keep you alive to find out information about the rebels,” Snow said. “And on that front, you could not be more wrong. To be sure, I will kill you and cast you aside when the time comes, but until then, when the time is right, you will see just how much work I have for you to do here. And i will use you as I see fit, as long as I see fit. And I am not only interrogating you, Miss Maris, I am punishing you. I am forcing you to reckon with the consequences of all the wrong you have done. And I’m doing the same to Mr. Odair. While I may not have Finnick Odair himself, I have the best weapon I could possibly use against him. I have you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about - ” Athena said, but the sinking feeling in her stomach told her that she had an idea, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

“Like I said, Miss Maris,” Snow said. “It will be much better if we don’t lie. You know as well as I do, perhaps even better, that in all likelihood, Finnick Odair is wasting away in District Thirteen, driving himself to insanity all on his own at the thought of what I might be doing to you. It’s the things we love most, Miss Maris, that destroy us in the end. I don’t have to so much as touch Finnick to punish him for his crimes. His love for you is doing it for me.”

Athena felt heavier than ever. She wished she could sink through to the floor. She couldn’t say she was surprised, though. Hadn’t she thought about this? Hadn’t she hoped against hope that the ones she loved would be able to move on from her with ease but known it was unlikely? Of course Snow had realized it too and was taking advantage of it. He was probably doing the same with Katniss and Peeta. She hated him, and yet she found her anger being drowned out by something else. Worry. Fear. Sadness. She tried to imagine Finnick finding out that she was in the Capitol, then forced herself to banish the thought from her mind; after losing Mags, too...

“You see it, too, don’t you?” Snow said, with a smirk that made her want to attack him all over again. “He loves you so dearly. Any of the methods of torture I have here wouldn’t work quite so well as simply using you as my weapon against him. But I’m afraid we’re getting carried away now. The reason I brought you here was because we needed you occupied for some time while your new quarters were prepared for you. I thought there would be no better way for you to pass the time than with me.”

Athena could think of a fair few things she would’ve preferred, but she didn’t express any of them.

“My new quarters?” she said questioningly instead.

“Yes,” said Snow, “your former quarters were fine to begin with, but I believe you’ll find these new conditions to be far better suited for someone like you.”

“How generous of you,” Athena said flatly. “I suppose it’s time for me to see them now?”

“It is indeed,” Snow confirmed. “And worry not, I’ve ensured that you’ll receive the perfect welcome to your new quarters.”

 _More torture, probably,_ Athena thought, but simply smiled and said, “Thank you, President Snow.”

“You’re quite welcome,” he said. “And I will see you again quite soon, I expect.”

Recognizing the dismissal in those words, Athena stood and nodded at him once. Before she could even take a step in any direction, the Peacekeepers were at her sides. They blindfolded her immediately, grabbed her arms, and were pushing her along roughly out of the room. It bothered her that Snow was seeing her pinned down and blindfolded, but she knew better than to resist.

The Peacekeepers led her along until she felt open air hit her skin again, but they didn’t stop and they didn’t remove her blindfolds. She was shoved into another car, pushed out of it shortly, and soon they were back inside somewhere, probably in the Training Center. At some point she was in an elevator, and she could feel it take them down at its usual rapid pace. Finally, they came to a halt and her blindfold was removed. Able to see again, she looked around.

This cell looked exactly the same as her old one. The same size, the same colour, the same thin mattress in one corner and television in the other. She wouldn’t have suspected anything was different if Snow hadn’t told her. She would’ve thought that maybe Snow was lying to her to throw her off, except she didn’t see what the benefits of that could possibly be.

She had no time to figure it out. There were two more Peacekeepers waiting for her in this room, along with the blonde-haired doctor her assistant, and a brown-haired man in a crisp black suit named Philo Prudence. He was one of the heads of security and was frequently the one who questioned her. The four Peacekeepers were forcing her onto the mattress, while the doctors covered her with those odd patches, attached to imposing-looking machines. Philo loomed over her, blocking out the light.

“As always,” he said, with his horrible, smarmy way of speaking, “I’ll give you the chance to do this the easy way. What is the rebel plan?”

Athena said nothing. She didn’t look at him, staring up at the ceiling instead. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him gesturing to one of the Peacekeepers, who lifted their boot and stomped on her stomach so hard that it knocked the breath out of her for several long moments.

“Look at me,” Philo snarled. She forced herself to focus her gaze on him. “Tell me. What is the rebel plan?”

Athena said nothing, but she didn't look away from him. That wasn't good enough for him. He gestured to the doctors, who fiddled with the dials of the machine. Immediately, she felt a burning sensation in the all the places the patches were attached to her skin. Athena hissed in pain, writhing a little.

“This will all be over if you just talk,” Philo said softly. “All you need to do is tell me what the rebels’ plan is.”

Athena stayed silent. She stared right into cold blue eyes and said nothing. She felt the patches getting hotter, felt the burning sensation get worse, as though it was spreading through her whole body, and bit down hard on her lip to muffle out the sounds of her crying out in pain. Tears were stinging her eyes, but she didn’t look away from Philo.

“Come on, now,” Philo said, crouching down so that their faces were nearly level. “No need to suffer so much for a cause that abandoned you, is there? Just tell me. What is their plan? They charged you with the task of protecting Katniss Everdeen, why would they do that? Why did they want her alive? What did they intend to do with her?”

She stared at him. Her hands were wound into tight fists, digging overgrown fingernails into the palm of her hand until it threatened to draw blood, trying to brace herself against the excruciating pain of the burns. Her whole body was writhing uncontrollably as her skin only felt hotter and hotter, but she still didn’t dare speak. Her stubborn silence soon angered him, the way it always did in the end.

“Tell me. What are they doing? What are they planning? What is the Mockingjay’s next move? Why did you fight to keep her alive? Tell me.”

And even though it felt like she was being burned alive, she still remained silent. Soon, it felt like her very skin was melting off, and she couldn’t help the scream that was ripped from her throat. She wasn’t saying anything - not anything coherent, anyway - more just screaming from the pain of it all. Still, the doctors kept twiddling the dials and increasing the heat, and Philo kept questioning her, berating her and occasionally getting the Peacekeepers to beat her in an attempt to get answers. Eventually, the pain became too much and she passed out from it.

Athena woke up again to the sound of screaming. She bolted upright, looking around wildly. She wasn't sure how much time had passed, but she was alone. The Peacekeepers and the doctors and Philo were all gone, leaving only her. She looked down at her skin. Though the pain still lingered, the burn marks and any bruises the Peacekeepers might have left were all gone. Her skin looked untouched.

The screams weren't coming from her, because she could still hear them, clear as day, but her mouth was closed. She wondered if she was imagining it, until she listened a little closer and realized that it seemed to be coming not from her cell, but somewhere outside of it. Slowly, she made herself stand and was pleased to find her legs capable of supporting her body. She crept over tentatively to the other side of the room where the screams seemed to be the loudest, pressing her ear against the wall. Yes, it was coming from the other side of this wall. Maybe there was another cell there, holding another prisoner. And now that she was listening to it more closely, she realized that the screams didn’t sound anything like her at all. But they were awfully familiar. They sounded just like -

“Johanna,” Athena whispered, her voice cracking at the realization.

She sounded like she was in so much pain. They must have been torturing her too, right at this moment. It was horrible to hear, hurting her much in the same way those burns had earlier. Her heart constricted painfully when Johanna let out another long, drawn out cry of pain. What were they doing to her? How were they torturing her for her to be making those noises?

“Johanna!” Athena cried out. Johanna let out another scream. Athena pounded on the wall, wanting nothing more than to be able to break it down. “Johanna! Johanna!”

“A-Athena?” came Johanna’s weak voice, tentative, uncertain. “Athena? Is that you?”

“It’s me! Johanna, it’s me, it’s - ”

She was cut off by the sound of Johanna let out another tortured scream. Athena was pounding on the walls harder than ever, not knowing what else to do. She froze when she heard another scream. It was different from Johanna’s. Lower in pitch, but no less pained. It was instantly familiar to Athena too.

“Peeta? Peeta! Peeta!”

It was coming from the wall opposite. And through the horror and pain that she felt, she managed to find clarity. So Snow had moved her to a different cell, just as he said. He moved her so that she was in between Johanna and Peeta, so that when they were tortured, she could hear their screams. And they could hear hers. He must have known that this would be a form of torture all on its own for her, hearing the effects of all the horrible things they were doing to Peeta and Johanna.

Johanna’s and Peeta’s screams were mingling together, forming some horrific sort of melody, ringing in Athena’s ear, echoing in her mind. It was too much, and yet there was no way to drown it out. And no way to help them. Once again, she was failing to save the both of them. She realized before long that she was screaming hysterically herself, crying out their names. Apparently, her screams had become too much, because eventually, Peacekeepers were storming into her cell. They reached out to grab her, restraining her.

“What are you doing to them?” she screamed at them, thrashing and struggling against their grip violently, but they held her fast. “What the hell are you doing to them? Stop hurting them, don’t hurt them, please don’t - ”

But it was useless, because at that moment, one of them was injecting her with a syringe that she soon realized was full of morphling. The effect of it was fast. Weakened and suddenly feeling made of lead, she slumped limply against the Peacekeepers. All sound became muffled in her ears, even those terrible, terrible screams, and soon she was unconscious again.

She swam gradually back into consciousness. She opened her eyes slowly and found them staring at the white ceiling. She was sprawled out on the mattress. The screams were gone now. There was nothing but the sound of her ragged breathing, inhaling and exhaling. By her bedside was a tray containing a meal. It could have been breakfast or lunch or dinner, she wasn’t sure. She ignored it. She wasn’t sure her stomach could handle food right then.

Morphling dulled the extreme of all senses, of all emotions, so any happiness she might have felt at Finnick’s, Katniss’, and Beetee’s safety was buried away so deep that she could barely feel it anymore, as was her anxiety for Johanna and Peeta. All it left was a sort of numbness, but as the effects of the morphling slowly wore off, those emotions came back in full force, and the fear was managing to outweigh anything else, the way fear tended to do. She knew she shouldn’t feel this way, but a part of her was missing the effects of the morphling. She could understand those who were addicted to in Six a little better now, understood why Penelope and Talisa sometimes smuggled it in. Feeling nothing was easier than feeling pain. The morphling provided an easier way out, allowed someone to feel like they were floating vaguely through life instead of suffering through it. A part of her longed for that feeling, though she knew in the end it would cause more harm than good. She wished they would stop giving her morphling. She was terrified she’d develop an addiction to it. Maybe that was what Snow wanted. For her to waste away on the drug, become so dependant on it that it seemed like he held onto her lifeline; maybe he thought she’d be more susceptible to give the answers he wanted if he held the promise of more painkiller over her head. She couldn’t help but shudder at the thought.

Yes, the effects of the morphling were gone now. Fear and pain were back as her primary feelings.

She thought about Johanna and Peeta, trapped in the cells on either side of her. Everything seemed so silent now, eerily so. Were they alive? They had to be. Snow still thought they had value. He wouldn't kill them so quickly, would he? Still, she had to check.

Athena turned over in bed, facing the wall that separated her and Peeta. She propped herself up on her elbows and called out, her voice hoarse, “Peeta? Peeta? Peeta!”

She got no response. She kept calling his name, hoping for some kind of response. She got none, though. There was nothing but silence on the other end. Athena eventually gave up and crawled over slowly to the other side of the room, until she was at the wall that separated her and Johanna, pressing her palm flat against it.

“Johanna?” she croaked out. “Johanna?”

She went through the same process with Johanna, calling out to her over and over, but ultimately getting no reply. She was never greeted with anything but a heavy silence. She forced herself to stop before she lost control and they came in and sedated her again. Her mind immediately jumped to the worst possible explanation, but built its way up from there. Why would they be dead, after all, when they still had value to Snow? Maybe they were unconscious and still recovering from what must have been a terrible torture session. Maybe they were somewhere else, having a meeting with Snow much like she had had earlier. There were other explanations to this, other possibilities besides death...

Athena slumped against the wall, letting out a deep sigh and rubbing her face blearily with her hands. Her eyes landed on the tray by her bed. She still wasn’t hungry, but they would force it down her throat if she didn’t eat it soon. She crawled back the way she had come and sat down on the mattress, bringing the tray on her lap and beginning to eat. It was rich, the way all food in the Capitol was, but there wasn’t much of it. They never gave her a lot, only what was needed to sustain her. It was difficult to keep it all down, but she managed it.

As soon as she was finished, the television sparked to life, showing the Capitol seal. There was a swell of music as Panem's anthem played. She wasn't expecting much. Just more Capitol propaganda. They played the same sort of thing all the time. War footage. Replaying the bombings of District Twelve. An ominous message from President Snow. For this reason, it was almost entertaining to see Caesar Flickerman, the host of the Hunger Games for decades now, with his painted face and sparkly suit, preparing to give an interview. Any amusement she felt disappeared like smoke when the camera pulled back and revealed that his guest was none other than Peeta.

Her breath caught in her throat, and Athena felt herself move instinctively, as though she was on autopilot. She moved the tray aside and stood slowly, drifting over to stand right in front of the television, her eyes fixed on Peeta. They seemed to be somewhere in Snow's mansion. Was this why he hadn't answered her? Because he was doing this interview instead? It would make sense, and yet, as she took in Peeta's appearance, she felt doubtful. It seemed impossible that the screams she had heard could have ever come from the boy on the screen. Peeta looked healthy to the point of robustness. His skin was glowing and flawless in that full-body-polish way. His manner was composed and serious.

Athena couldn't reconcile what she was seeing with the shouts of pain she had heard earlier. How could he have been tortured so terribly and yet look so healthy and composed only hours later? She knew Capitol cosmetics had a knack for completely transforming a person, but this seemed like something else entirely. She supposed her ability to keep track of time was far from a reliable thing at this point; perhaps she'd been unconscious for longer than she thought. Still, she found it hard to believe that he'd been able to recover this much in time for a live interview.

Unless the interview wasn't live. She scanned every detail being displayed on the screen, trying to find something that place this interview to a specific time, to this current moment, but she found nothing. She had assumed at first that it was a live interview, but there was nothing that said it couldn't have been pre-recorded. Perhaps they had filmed this when Peeta had first arrived in the Capitol, still in decent shape, and had since then done whatever they wanted to him, torturing and interrogating him. Perhaps they had just waited until this exact moment to make broadcast.

It was what made the most sense. She had no way of knowing for sure, though. She just collapsed against the wall, sinking to the floor, her eyes glued to the television. For the moment, she forgot almost everything else.

Caesar was settling himself more comfortably in the chair across from Peeta and giving him a long look, before saying finally, “So... Peeta... welcome back.”

Peeta gave a small smile. “I bet you thought you'd done your last interview with me, Caesar.”

“I confess, I did,” said Caesar. “The night before the Quarter Quell... well, who ever thought we’d see you again?”

“It wasn’t part of my plan, that’s for sure,” Peeta said with a frown.

Caesar leaned towards him a little. “I think it was clear to all of us what your plan was. To sacrifice yourself in the arena so that Katniss Everdeen and your child could survive.”

“That was it,” Peeta confirmed, his fingers tracing the upholstered pattern on the arm of his chair. “Clear and simple. But other people had plans as well.”

Athena straightened up, tensing slightly. In the silence that followed, she could see the lines that had formed between Peeta’s eyebrows. He knew. Somehow, he knew about the mission - well, about the most basic parts of it, that Katniss’ rescue had been arranged from the beginning, that there had been a greater plan in place in which they were only pawns. Either he pieced it together on his own or he had been told. Her heart ached painfully at the sight of him, guilt welling up inside of her. She had lied to him and Katniss all the way through the arena, and the mission might have been a success, but what good had it done him in the end?

“I'm sorry, Peeta,” she whispered. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't do more for you. I'm sorry I couldn't save you.”

On screen, Caesar was saying, “Why don’t you tell us about that last night in the arena? Help us sort a few things out.”

Peeta nodded, but took his time speaking. “That last night... to tell you about that last night... well, first of all, you have to imagine how it felt in the arena. It was like being an insect trapped under a bowl filled with steaming air. And all around you, jungle... green and alive and ticking. That giant clock ticking away your life. Every hour promising some new horror. You have to imagine that in the past two days, fifteen people have died - some of them defending you. At the rate things are going, the last nine will be dead by morning. Save one. The victor. And your plan is that it won’t be you.”

Athena felt herself break into a sweat at the memories that were now flashing through her mind. Peeta was describing what it had been like in that arena perfectly, almost too vividly.

“Once you’re in the arena, the rest of the world becomes very distant,” he continued. “All the people and things you loved or cared about almost cease to exist. The pink sky and the monsters in the jungle and the tributes who want your blood become your final reality, the only one that ever mattered. As bad as it makes you feel, you’re going to have to do some killing, because in the arena, you only get one wish. And it’s very costly.”

“It costs your life,” said Caesar.

“Oh, no,” said Peeta. “It costs a lot more than your life.”

“How do you mean?” Caesar asked. “What’s more than your life?”

“To murder innocent people?” Peeta said. “It costs everything you are.”

“Everything you are,” Caesar repeated quietly.

Athena was transfixed on the television, hardly even daring to breathe. Although she was alone in her cell, she could almost feel a hush spread over Panem, a nation leaning in towards its screens the way she was right now. Because no one had ever talked about what it was really like in the arena before, not like this. This was the first time a tribute, a victor, had ever spoken candidly about what it was like in the Hunger Games.

Peeta continued. “So you hold onto your wish. And that last night, yes, my wish was to save Katniss. But even without knowing about the rebels, it didn’t feel right. Everything was too complicated. I found myself regretting I hadn’t run off with her earlier in the day, as she had suggested. But there was no getting out of it at that point.”

“You were too caught up in Beetee’s plan to electrify the salt lake?”

“Too busy playing allies with the others. I should have never let them separate us!” Peeta burst out. “That’s when I lost her.”

“When you stayed at the lightning tree, while she and Johanna Mason took the coil of wire down to the water,” Caesar clarified.

“I didn’t want to!” Peeta flushed in agitation. “But I couldn’t argue with Beetee without indicating we were about to break away from the alliance. When that wire was cut, everything just went insane. I can only remember bits and pieces. Trying to find her. Watching Brutus kill Chaff. Attacking Brutus. Him almost killing me. Athena saving me and killing him herself. I know Katniss was calling my name. Then the lightning bolt hit the tree, and the force field around the arena... blew out.”

“Yes, Peeta, but Katniss is the one who blew it out,” Caesar pointed out. “You’ve seen the footage.”

“She didn’t know what she was doing,” Peeta snapped back at once. “None of us could follow Beetee’s plan. You can see her trying to figure out what to do with that wire.”

“Alright. It just looks suspicious,” said Caesar. “As if she was part of the rebels’ plan all along.”

And just like that, Peeta was on his feet, leaning into Caesar’s face, hands locked on the arms of his interviewer’s chair. “Really? And was it part of her plan for Johanna to nearly kill her? For that electric shock to paralyze her?” He was yelling now. “She didn’t know, Caesar! Neither of us knew anything except that we were trying to keep each other alive!”

Caesar placed a hand on Peeta’s chest in a gesture that was both self-protective and conciliatory. “Okay, Peeta, I believe you.”

“Okay,” Peeta said slowly and withdrew from Caesar, pulling back his hands, running them through his hair, mussing up carefully styled blond curls. He slumped back in his chair, looking distraught.

Caesar waited for a moment, studying Peeta. “What about your mentor, Haymitch Abernathy?”

Peeta’s face hardened. “I don’t know what Haymitch knew.”

“Could he have been part of the conspiracy?”

“He never mentioned it.”

Caesar pressed on. “What does your heart tell you?”

“That I shouldn’t have trusted him,” Peeta replied. “That’s all.”

He seemed to mean it. Something about this answer made Athena realize that Peeta must have hated them all - all the rebels, that was. She could not blame him. This plan, keeping him and Katniss in the dark, all it did was reduce them to pieces in the game. It landed him here. Why should he have any fondness for any of them?

Caesar patted Peeta on the shoulder. “We can stop now if you want.”

“Was there more to discuss?” Peeta said wryly.

“I was going to ask your thoughts on the war, but if you’re too upset...”

“Oh, I’m not too upset to answer that,” Peeta said, took a deep breath, then looked straight into the camera. “I want everyone watching - whether you’re on the Capitol or the rebel side - to stop for a moment and think about what this war could mean. For human beings. We almost went extinct fighting one another before. Now our numbers are even fewer. Our conditions more tenuous. Is this really what we want to do? Kill ourselves completely? In the hopes that - what? Some decent species will inherit the smoking remains of the earth?”

“I don’t really... I’m not sure I’m following...” Caesar said slowly.

“We can’t fight one another, Caesar,” Peeta explained. “There won’t be enough of us left to keep going. If everybody doesn’t lay down their weapons - and I mean, as in very soon - it’s all over, anyway.”

“So... you’re calling for a cease-fire?” Caesar asked.

“Yes. I’m calling for a cease-fire,” Peeta said tiredly. “Now why don’t we ask the guards to take me back to my quarters so I can build another hundred card houses?”

Caesar turned to the camera. “Alright, I think that wraps it up. So back to our regularly scheduled programming.”

Music played them out, and then there was a woman reading a list of expected shortages in the Capitol - fresh fruit, solar batteries, soap. Athena watched her blankly, barely paying attention, reeling from the interview with Peeta. She struggled a little to process it at all. He looked unharmed at the time, but who knew what state he was in now? The screams she had heard earlier certainly weren’t a good sign.

She thought about the things he had said all throughout the interview. He called for a cease-fire. That wasn’t something to be taken lightly. What did he think would happen if there was a cease-fire? As far as she knew, which admittedly wasn’t much, the rebels had only achieved minor victories at this point. A cease-fire would result in nothing but returning to their previous status. Or worse. Probably worse. How could Peeta possibly condone something like that? More of the Capitol controlling the districts, more of the Hunger Games, more of those horrible experiences in the arena that Peeta had described...

There was no way that this was what he wanted. The cease-fire was clearly Snow’s idea. But Peeta managed to make it sound so reasonable; to the people in the districts who weren’t sure if they wanted to rebel or not, to the places where the resistance was a little shakier, Peeta’s talk of a cease-fire might sound attractive. Real damage might be done to the rebel cause because of this interview - which, of course, was probably exactly what Snow wanted. Still, she was certain the resistance must be strong enough in certain areas, especially in District Thirteen, that Peeta’s words would immediately be dismissed. It was possible that some might even be calling Peeta a traitor, a liar, an enemy. This bothered her greatly. They didn't understand what it was like in the Capitol. They left him behind in the arena and wanted to call him a traitor now for -

For what? Why did he agree to say those things? Maybe he was persuaded. Knowing Snow, he could have been threatened or tortured - not too badly, but as a small taste of what would come if he didn't cooperate (not that that did much good, because he had done the interview and still Athena had heard his screams of pain not long ago, but Peeta couldn't have known that would happen at the time). The most likely thing was that he had some sort of deal with Snow. Athena thought about the way Peeta defended Katniss consistently, all the way through the interview, insisting that she was innocent and had simply been confused and mislead when she shot that arrow into the force field. Yes, perhaps he and Snow had agreed that if he promoted a cease-fire, Snow would let him present Katniss as a confused pregnant girl who had had no idea what was going on when she was taken prisoner by the rebels. He probably wanted Katniss to lay low, remain safe and out of the spotlight, while the war played out, so that neither side had any strong cause to kill her. That way, if the districts lost, there was still a chance for leniency for Katniss, so long as she played her cards right. If the rebels won, Peeta might be in serious trouble for his words in this interview. But with how he was presenting Katniss, she might end up in decent shape no matter how this war ended. He was still trying to protect her.

It made sense. It was quite noble of him, really. But it didn't matter. There couldn't be a cease-fire. They couldn't go back to the way things were - not without a fight, anyway. The rebels in Thirteen and in other places probably realized this. She hoped they did, anyway. She hoped that they'd ignore Peeta's words and keep fighting and - and that his words wouldn't come back to hurt him if the rebels won.

“Peeta Mellark,” she sighed, and she punctuated the name by banging her head against the wall behind her. “Katniss Everdeen.” She banged her head against the wall again. “Johanna Mason.” She did it again. “Beetee Latier. Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair. Annie Cresta. Mags Flanagan...”

She kept listing off names, banging the back of her head hard against the wall with each name she uttered. The blows were starting to hurt her head. She didn't care if she was doing damage to it. She kept doing it. She only stopped when more Peacekeepers came in, held her down when she struggled against them, and knocked her out again. She was positive she could hear Peeta's screams start up again before everything went black.


	4. IV

**IV**

 

Finnick kept his hands busy a lot. He was barely aware that he was doing it most of the time, but he kept doing it anyway, as though afraid he’d go mad if he didn’t. He tied and untied knots with his rope constantly, and when he didn’t have that immediately on hand, he traced shapes on his blankets. It took him a while to realize that he was tracing out letters. Barely aware of what he was doing, he wondered if he was tracing out actual words and sentences or just random letters. He didn’t care much, though. He didn’t really think it mattered - that was, until his doctors noticed him doing it.

They hastened to get him a scrap piece of paper and a pencil. Without thinking, he let himself write. It was a poem. It was about Athena, wondering where she was. It was six lines long and barely rhymed. His doctors were ecstatic, though, pleased he had been able to focus long enough to write six semi-coherent lines of writing. Doctor Silver whispered something to another doctor, who disappeared, before returning ten minutes later with a notebook for him. Finnick wrote ten poems in one go. Seven were terrible (one didn't rhyme at all), two were sort of decent, and one was actually passable. His doctors all considered it a major victory. They asked to see the poems, but he refused. They backed off immediately, which was all the confirmation Finnick needed that they would just look anyway when he was asleep and couldn't stop them. He wished there was some way to hide it from them, but he couldn't see how he could.

He looked around, trying to see if there was some way to conceal the notebook after all. Finally, he realized that there was really only one way to make sure they never saw them. If he was discharged. Whenever he was ready to join the rest of District Thirteen, he’d be assigned his own private compartment rather than a hospital room. Once that was the case, he could see no reason why anyone would look through any of his belongings.

He would have to work on staying awake for longer instead of drifting uncontrollably between sleep and waking. And remaining focused. And making himself move. It was a lot of trouble just to make sure his doctors didn’t see some stupid poems. But it was the closest thing to motivation to see anything outside of this hospital he’d had since coming to Thirteen. He would have to take it.

Just as he came to this conclusion, someone’s voice sounded from above. He gave a small start, until he realized that it was just President Coin reminding them of the assembly that would be held later on in the Collective, where the entire population, save those needed for essential jobs, would be required to attend. That included those in the hospital. He supposed he’d be seeing the outside of the hospital sooner than he thought. He figured the announcement had to be about something important; they’d been playing the announcement once every fifteen minutes since lunch. It seemed excessive in a way District Thirteen usually wasn’t, which meant Coin really didn’t want anyone to miss this. He wondered what the assembly could be about. He wished he could bring himself to care more.

He looked around him. He wished he'd made the decision to start recovering before lunch. It probably would've been a show of good faith if he managed to eat and keep a full meal down for once. He was coming up with ways he could convince his doctors that he was completely stable, when Doctor Silver appeared at his bedside and was calling him to attention. He supposed it was time for one of his sessions. Finnick hated them. At least twenty times per session, Doctor Silver would tell him about how he was away from the arena, away from the Capitol, and that he was _totally safe_. He knew District Thirteen must have had a hard time these past seventy-five years, especially right after the Dark Days, essentially having to build themselves back up from nothing, but they still hadn’t experienced life under Capitol control, which is probably why Doctor Silver didn’t realize how much of a ridiculous thing that was to say to someone, especially a victor.

If he wanted to get discharged, though, he figured he would have to play along, so when Doctor Silver asked him if he felt that he was _totally safe_ , Finnick swallowed and said, as confidently as he could muster, “Yes, I do. I feel... totally safe.”

Considering that this was the most they had ever gotten out of him, this answer was considered a big deal. Doctor Silver took only a moment to be surprised, before he promptly started grilling him, asking question after question about himself and what he was thinking and about how things made him _feel_. For the first time, Finnick forced himself to answer, figuring it’d be a step closer to getting discharged, but there were so many of them, rattling around in his brain, floating through his ears, overwhelming. By the time it was over and Doctor Silver had left him alone, he felt drained.

It was dawning on him that the Finnick Odair who could charm and manipulate with ease to get his away, who could consistently keep a tight rein on his emotions, who could force himself to push past almost anything, might be gone forever. Or perhaps he had never truly existed and he had just fooled himself into believing he had. Before he could decide which was true and how he felt about it, he felt himself being pulled back under into unconsciousness. He only barely remembered to stuff his notebook under his pillow before he was asleep.

He dreamt that Athena was drowning. He didn’t understand how it could be happening at first, with Athena being such a strong swimmer, but he realized that something seemed to be pulling her down into the dark depths below. He tried with all his might to pull her back up to safety, but he was suddenly so weak that he couldn’t manage it, and soon he felt her hand slipping from his. He tried desperately to redouble his grip on her, but her hand still left his and she began sinking further and further down. Immediately, Finnick dove down after her, and whether it was in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to save her or to join her in wherever she was going, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t care. He wasn’t leaving her alone again. Before anything could come of it, before he could find her or drown, he felt himself being shaken awake.

Tense, his eyes darted all around him. It took him a long time to realize that he was not underwater and was instead still in his hospital bed. One of his doctors had woken him up, telling him it was time for the assembly in the Collective. The doctor was apparently Katniss’ mother. They looked absolutely nothing alike, though; this woman was pale and blonde-haired and blue-eyed where Katniss was olive-skinned and dark-haired and grey-eyed, but everyone called her Doctor Everdeen and it was a pretty useless thing to lie about, anyway. Finnick supposed Katniss just took after her father.

Katniss. Maybe he’d see her at the assembly. He wouldn’t mind that. He grabbed his rope, immediately beginning to tie and unravel various knots, and followed the rest of the doctors and patients to the Collective.

This was the first time he was seeing the outside of the hospital. Admittedly, it wasn’t very pretty, with nothing but grey metal all around, and the lack of sunlight only made the place gloomier. But it was a place built to last. A place built to endure after almost being bombed into nothingness. The Collective was a huge room that easily held the thousands who showed up to the assembly. It was clear that it was made to hold a larger group, and maybe it had, once. In some part of his mind, Finnick could vaguely remember someone mentioning something about there being some sort of pox epidemic several years back, wiping out a good chunk of the population, including a great deal of the district’s children (and as his eyes swept the hall, he did note that there weren’t all that many children here). It was probably one of his doctors. It might have been Haymitch or Katniss. It bothered him that he didn’t know for sure. Regardless, it was evident in the empty spaces in the Collective, in the pox scars on people’s bodies, in the slightly disfigured children. He figured that was why they were so eager to take in refugees. They needed to build up their population again. District Thirteen was in this rebellion for the long haul.

As he thought about this, having finally seen more of the district than just his hospital room, Finnick found himself truly appreciating and giving District Thirteen the credit it hadn’t occurred to him they deserved. They had managed to stay alive despite having none of the odds in their favour. The early years must have been something terrible; huddled in chambers beneath the ground, their city turned to dust, their population decimated, and with absolutely no allies to turn to for help. The Capitol had destroyed them and left them to die out on their own, and yet still, over the course of seventy-five years, they managed to make themselves self-sufficient, turn their citizens into an army, and build a new society without help from anyone. They probably would have been in an even better position if it hadn’t been for the pox epidemic. They were militaristic and overly programmed and, as far as Finnick could tell, lacking in a sense of humor, but they were here. Here and willing to take on the Capitol and in a good enough position to take care of unstable, hysterical, unhinged, broken victors from District Four. Nothing to be overlooked or downplayed.

He noticed a fair few people staring at him, nudging the person beside them, whispering behind their hands as their eyes rested on him. Normally, he didn’t mind having so many people looking at him - well, no, that was a lie. Normally, he could force himself not to mind or ignore the parts of him that minded and pretend he didn’t. He found that hard to do now. He tried to ignore it, making himself focus on his knots, but even as he set to work on tying, then untying a fisherman’s bend, he couldn’t help but think about it. He wondered what they were thinking as they looked at him. Maybe they were wondering why he hadn’t joined the war effort yet. Maybe they thought he was a disappointment.

 _Well_ , he thought numbly, _join the club. Everyone has to realize that about me sooner or later._

The fact that he knew nobody here, alone in a sea of unfamiliar faces, was rapidly becoming overwhelming. God, how could he have ever thought he should be discharged and thrown into the middle of all of this? He could never last here. He was better off in that hospital where he belonged, that was all he was good for now -

At that moment, he felt someone nudging him and saying, “Finnick! How are you doing?”

He started and whipped around to find -

“Katniss!” he said, gripping her hand, relieved to see a familiar face. Relieved that she did not seem angry at him. “Why are we meeting here?”

“I told Coin I'd be her Mockingjay,” she explained. “But I made her promise to give the other tributes immunity if the rebels win. In public, so there are plenty of witnesses.”

Finnick considered this. He was unsurprised Katniss agreed to be the Mockingjay; it seemed to be something of an inevitability. He was relieved she'd made a deal to protect the other victors. He thought back to Peeta's interview that he had seen the other day (he was pretty sure it had been the other day, anyway). Many people here would probably think of Peeta's words as traitorous, meaning they might think of the other victors as potential enemies. The fact that their protection had been guaranteed - at least, from accusations of being traitors from the rebels, anyway - made him feel lighter, if only by a little.

“Oh. Good,” he said. “Because I worry about that sometimes, with Annie especially - you know, that she'll say something that could be construed as traitorous without knowing it.”

“Don't worry, I took care of it.”

Katniss have his hand a quick squeeze, before disappearing into the crowd. He went back to tying his knots to ease his anxiety. He spotted Katniss at the front podium with Coin. They whispered to each other for several moments. He wondered if Katniss had forgotten to add Annie to the list of victors granted immunity. People tended to forget Annie, to treat her as an afterthought. It had always bothered Finnick, but at least Katniss was trying by having her added. It wasn't like she knew Annie, anyway. It was why he said nothing when Katniss reappeared at his side right in time for the beginning of the assembly.

Another thing they didn't waste in District Thirteen was words. Coin called the audience's attention quickly and announced that Katniss had consented to be the Mockingjay provided that the other victors of the Quarter Quell - Peeta, Athena, Johanna, Enobaria, and Annie - were granted full pardon to any damage they might do to the rebel cause. In the rumbling of the crowd, Finnick could hear dissent. They had probably all expected Katniss to agree to be the Mockingjay right away without any complaints. The fact that she had any conditions, including ones that protected perceived enemies, was enough to cause some anger. Some hostile looks were sent Katniss’ way, but she looked indifferent. Finnick found he didn't care, either. They could all think what they wanted, as long as the other victors were okay.

President Coin allowed for a few moments of unrest and protest, before continuing in her brisk fashion. “But in return for this unprecedented request, Soldier Everdeen has promised to devote herself to our cause. It follows that any deviance from her mission, in either motive or deed, will be viewed as a break in this agreement. The immunity would be terminated and the fate of the four victors determined by the law of District Thirteen. As would her own. Thank you.”

The meaning of Coin’s words was hard to miss. If Katniss stepped out of line, the victors were all in trouble. Including her.

Another player. Moves and countermoves. The games hadn't ended.

It was becoming impossible to believe they ever would.

 

*

 

Another player. Another force to be reckoned with. Another game. Or was it the same game they'd been playing all this time, _the_ Game? He wasn't sure. He tried to figure it out, but it was impossible to tell. It was all he could think about, though, once he was back in his hospital bed, these games and its players (and who were really players and who were just the pawns, the pieces that got moved around just right to play the perfect game) and what it would all come to in the end. It made him think of Athena. It somehow made the fact that she was in Snow's hands even worse. He felt more hopeless than ever. He wanted to write another poem, but he couldn't even bring himself to do that. He instead was pulled back into a restless sleep.

He dreamt he was chasing after his mother, then his father, then his aunt, then Mags through the streets of the Capitol, but no matter how fast he sprinted after them in attempt to reach them, they always disappeared like smoke before he could, fading away before his very eyes. He realized Athena was watching forlornly from the inside of a cage, and he hastened to break her out, but no matter what method he tried, the cage wouldn't budge and Athena remained trapped. Eventually, he resorted to yanking on the bars of the cage, as though hoping he might be able to break the cage with his bare hands, but at that moment, he was distracted and weakened by the sounds of Annie, Johanna, and Peeta screaming in pain. He sunk to his knees, covering his ears, trying desperately yet fruitlessly to block it out, murmuring, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” over and over.

When he swam back into consciousness again, Plutarch was at his bedside. He was smiling. The sight of him didn't make Finnick feel any better. He realized his face was wet with tears and hastened to wipe them. He didn’t like that Plutarch could see.

 _One of the players,_ Finnick thought. _One of the major players. Making moves and countermoves all the time._

“I heard you were making progress,” said Plutarch.

Finnick gave a shrug, but thought that if this was what progress looked like, his life was much more grim than he originally thought.

“I have an offer for you,” Plutarch said. Finnick was pretty sure Plutarch was not used to being in front of such an indifferent audience, but he pushed on regardless. “Katniss is being prepped for her first propo - propaganda clip - right now. She's having a bit of a hard time adjusting. I figure it'll be easier for her if she sees you around. You'll get to see the outside of this hospital for a few hours, and you'll see a familiar face. How does that sound?”

Finnick felt oddly like a child being explained something by an adult who thought the topic was exceedingly simple. He didn't like it. He still considered the offer. If he could manage this, it might be a good step towards getting discharged. And he didn’t mind seeing Katniss again, along with whatever Mockingjay work they were making her do.

Finnick shrugged again. “Okay.”

“Great,” Plutarch said, relieved, like he’d been expecting Finnick to put up a fight. “Your doctors will want to check over you, and then we’ll head down.”

Indeed, his doctors were quick to circle around him, Doctor Silver in the lead, to ask him how he was and he felt totally safe, all in an attempt to see if he was really ready to go out or not. When they seemed to decide that he was, they gave him food to eat and the standard uniform for citizens in Thirteen - grey pants and a tucked-in shirt of the same colour. Wearing the outfit was good for him. He didn’t feel any better, but wearing something other than the white hospital gown that he had been wearing ever since they ended up in Thirteen felt like a step in the right direction to becoming more stable.

Before he could leave, Doctor Silver grabbed his wrist and stamped something onto his medical wristband. When she moved away, he examined his wristband. Now stamped on it was: _Mentally Disoriented._

He stared from the wristband to his doctors, until Doctor Everdeen explained, a little apologetically, “It’s so people understand... what you’re going through. So they can handle you with care. Katniss has it too.”

Handle him with care. They made him sound like cargo. Maybe he was; maybe he was an object to be passed around - carefully, so he wouldn't shatter - and used as others saw fit. He twiddled the wristband uncomfortably, but didn’t protest.

Plutarch led him out of the hospital, through the grey halls and rooms of District Thirteen, until they reached an elevator that somehow brought them even deeper into the ground. Eventually, they ended up in a large, spacious studio. He could see Katniss, surrounded by what must have been her prep team from the Capitol, who were hard at work at making her look camera ready. Since this was a revolution against the Capitol, one would think they would let Katniss look herself instead of mimicking the Capitol, but evidently they had high standards for the leaders of their revolutions. Finnick found he wasn’t very surprised. He was a little surprised at the sight of the prep team, though and confused about how they could possibly be there. No way they were with the rebels willingly.

Finnick turned to Plutarch, who was still standing by his side. “How did they - ?”

“Cinna requested that they be brought in,” Plutarch explained. “He figured she would feel more comfortable around her regular team.”

Finnick looked back at the group. Katniss didn’t look very comfortable, but he doubted she was capable of it when she was being painted with strict standards on just how pretty she needed to be to serve in a revolution. She did seem to like having them around, though. He studied them a little closer. They had been utterly stripped of all the heavy makeup, gaudy clothing, and excessive accessories that came with Capitol fashion. The only things that still indicated that they were from the Capitol was their skin and hair dyed unnatural colours, as well as the bright tattoos inked in their skin. Something about them, stripped of the excessive glamour of the Capitol, made them seem almost smaller. It took him a few moments to realize that the fact that they looked so small was actually because they looked like they had been starved. If he looked closely enough, he thought he could even see some bruises and scars on their bodies. He frowned. What happened to them? Had they received that treatment in the Capitol or here? A part of him already knew the answer to this, though.

He turned to ask Plutarch why District Thirteen decided to torture Katniss’ prep team, but found that he was already gone, having slipped away into the control room.

Finnick didn’t mind that he was gone, figuring he could just go talk to Katniss, but they wouldn’t let him anywhere near her while they were working, even though her prep team stuttered and tripped over their words and appeared starstruck at the fact that they were meeting Finnick Odair, introducing themselves as Ajax, Leto, and Hestia. Their injuries were much more noticeable up close. They made Finnick wonder what had become of his prep team. They were probably still in the Capitol, living the way they always did. Or maybe they weren’t. He wasn’t entirely sure how this rebellion was changing the daily lives of the people of the Capitol. Something about this made him think about Athena, which made him think about Annie and Johanna and Peeta and Calypso and Marella, which brought his mind back to Athena, so he began wandering around the set to push these thoughts from his mind.

He looked around at all the elaborate equipment they’d set up for Katniss’ first official act as the Mockingjay, tying and untying his rope idly as he did. He ended up in the control panel at some point, and no one made any protests to him being there. Maybe they were letting him get away with wandering around because of his status as mentally disoriented. Something about this, being in the control panel, observing katniss and her prep team from the outside, felt awfully like being in that raised platform where the gamemakers always sat, watching the tributes while they trained but never engaging, always detached, yet pulling all the strings. The thought didn’t bring about a very pleasant feeling.

Before he could dwell on it, they appeared to finish up with Katniss. She had donned her uniform, all black. It had Cinna’s name written all over it; the swoop of the helmet, the curve of the breastplate, the slight fullness of the sleeves that allowed the white folds under the arms to show, the way it looked utterly utilitarian at first glance, then a work of art the next. She was wearing a bloody bandage, clearly meant to imply that she had been in combat, but was probably there to cover the scar that had formed when Johanna stabbed her to remove her tracker. Something about the outfit made Katniss seem larger in stature, more imposing. Her face was smudged, but in a strategic way to make her look attractive. Her brows were black and drawn in an angle of defiance. She was holding a bow and arrow that apparently had been designed by Beetee for her. They brought her to the soundstage, where they adjusted makeup and lighting and even smoke levels to make her look either like she had just been extinguished or was about to burst into flames. Everyone in the control room argued about whether or not this was good enough, whether they should change this or that, while Finnick thought that the person he was looking at looked absolutely nothing like Katniss. Maybe if she was about ten years older. But she wasn’t. She was just a teenager, even if they wanted to try to make it look like she wasn’t. The tactics they employed here were sickeningly familiar.

Eventually, there was silence from within the control room, and Plutarch said, “I think that does it.”

They beckoned Katniss to the control room and played back the last few minutes of taping, allowing her to watch herself on screen. She looked like she was watching a stranger.

Finnick walked up behind her and said, in a brave attempt at his usual humor, “They’ll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you.”

Everyone was so excited and pleased with their work. It was close to dinner, but they insisted they kept going. They would do more tomorrow, speeches and interviews and staged rebel battles for Katniss to be in. For now, they just wanted one slogan, one line that they could turn into a propo to show Coin. The slogan was: “People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!”

Finnick could tell from the way the line was presented that they were all very proud of it. They had spent months, maybe even years working on it until they came up with what they saw as the perfect result. But Finnick didn’t feel the same way about it. It felt like a mouthful. And stiff. Nothing anyone would ever actually say, unless making fun of it. But they seemed very serious about it, if the fact that Fulvia Cardew, Plutarch’s assistant, was right in Katniss’ face, telling her all about the battle she had just been in battle and how her comrades-in-arms were all lying dead around her and she was to look into the camera and shout the line, was any indication.

She was hustled back to her place. The smoke machine kicked in. As they adjusted the smoke machine, Haymitch walked into the room, accompanied by a few doctors, who spoke in hushed tones with Plutarch and some other District Thirteen officials he didn’t recognize, before disappearing again, leaving Haymitch alone.

“Glad to have you here, Haymitch,” plutarch said with a nod. “Ready to get to work?”

“Aren’t I always?”

Finnick wandered over to him. In greeting, he said, “They let you out too?”

“They had to,” said Haymitch. “It’s time for me to do my job. Guide the Mockingjay.”

Finnick stared at him for several moments. He still hadn’t talked to Katniss. This would not go well. He didn’t say it out loud for two reasons: one, because Haymitch probably already knew, and two, because someone called for quiet to start filming. The cameras started rolling and someone called, “Action!”

To her credit, Katniss really did try her best. She really did try to make it work, raising her bow over her head and yelled with as much anger as she could muster, “People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!”

There was silence on set. It went on and on and on. Until, finally, from beside him, Haymitch’s acerbic laughter began filling the studio. He didn’t seem to want to be laughing; he apparently could not help himself, though he finally contained himself long enough to say, “And that, my friends, is how a revolution dies.”

 

*

 

Everyone was dismissed after that - mostly because Katniss left the studio, enraged, at the sound of Haymitch’s voice and refused to acknowledge Haymitch’s comments. They didn’t try again for exactly four days, mainly because Haymitch was trying to convince Plutarch and the other officials that they were handling this Mockingjay thing all wrong.

“I’ve got a plan for when they finally want to see sense,” Haymitch told him. “I want you to be there.”

The last time Finnick agreed to a plan of Haymitch’s, everything that was left unbroken in his life fell apart. He saw no harm in being involved in this plan, though. At the very least, there was no one left that could be taken away from him if it went wrong. He just agreed and told Haymitch he would be there.

In those four days, many things happened. In the middle of the second day, he was discharged from the hospital, having made a good enough show of being stable - though he was still marked as mentally disoriented and he was also required to have daily talks with his head doctor. He was assigned his own quarters in Compartment 302. It wasn’t a very nice place, small and dark and gloomy like much of Thirteen, but it was his. He was glad that it was his. He thought he was, anyway. With his new quarters, he was also given the only things in District Thirteen that he could call his own - his length of rope, his notebook of poems, the seashell necklace that Athena made for him in the arena, and the gold bangle Haymitch had made for him. He stared at the bangle for a long time, before shoving it in a drawer where he didn’t have to look at it, and threw the necklace of shells around his neck.

On the first night out of the hospital, he slept restlessly, tossing and turning, slipping into and out of horrible, vivid nightmares, but he slept. The next day, he was given a schedule that was tattooed on his forearm in sickly purple ink. He wanted to follow it. He tried to follow it. But the way everyone stared at him as he walked by weighed him down and even the simplest of tasks felt impossible to him and in the end, all he did was show up to meals and his talk with Doctor Silver. No one confronted him about it. He didn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t. His mind and his body both refused to shut down, leaving him staring up at the ceiling, at the mercy of his own thoughts. The necklace began tugging at his neck uncomfortably. Like he wasn’t supposed to be wearing it. Like he didn’t deserve it. As if he did not already know. He knew morning must have come at some point, but he couldn’t get up and start the next day. His body was experiencing that horribly familiar sensation of being unable to move. He felt pinned down to his bed. He tried to write poetry, but no words came to him. He tried to tie knots with his rope, but his hands suddenly felt clumsy and useless.

He couldn’t remember if sleep had ever been this difficult for him. It must have. But back then, he had some strategy to make it work for him. Now he had nothing. Often, what had helped him was having Athena there, curled up under the covers with him, filling the sheets with familiar, pleasant smell of cinnamon and vanilla. It should have been a happy thought, but it filled him with hopelessness and despair and grief, and instead he found himself weeping for hours. Eventually, from sheer exhaustion, he passed out. He dreamt he was back in the arena and being chased by jabberjays again. But this time, they didn't stop at mimicking the pained screams of everyone he had ever cared about. They also attacked him physically. A bird that sounded like Aunt Marena being tortured pecked at his arm, causing deep gashes. One that let our screams that sounded like Annie's tore at his hair. Birds that sounded like his mother and father slashed at his legs while crying for him to help them. It continued for ages, until a bird flew right in front of him, and with Athena's voice, let out the most devastated, pained, bloodcurdling scream he'd ever heard, and it was his name she was screaming. Immediately after, the bird used its sharp beak to rip his heart out. He woke up with a choked cry, convulsing in bed, as though trying to shake the jabberjays off him. Everything was dark. Moments later, he could feel himself being held down, and thinking that the jabberjays were back and bound to start singing again at any moment, began fighting harder than ever, until he felt a needle being put in his neck. His body suddenly felt like led again. He started to feel numb, floating through the darkness. At some point, he must have passed out again. The nightmares came, but he felt detached from them. Like they weren't really his.

When he woke up, he was in the hospital again. He was wearing the white hospital gown. He didn't know how they knew he had relapsed. Maybe he had been louder than he realized and there'd been some sort of noise complaint. He wondered when they'd let him out again. If they would let him out again.

Just then, he noticed that Beetee was at his bedside. He looked well, all things considered. He was in a wheelchair and had the pallor of someone still in physical recovery, but his eyes were bright and lively, at least.

“Beetee,” Finnick said flatly, but he was glad to see him. He picked up his rope from his bedside table and began tying and untying knots, finding his fingers able again.

“Finnick,” said Beetee. “I'm sorry I didn't come to see you.”

“That’s okay,” Finnick said at once. “Haven't really been in the best place to receive people, anyway.”

“I've heard,” Beetee said. “There have been concentration problems, apparently.”

“That's what they call it,” Finnick said, cracking a smile. “Bunch of bullshit, but they don't know any better. They bit off more than they could chew with me.”

“I think they're realizing that with all of us,” Beetee told him. He stared at him for a moment, as though examining him, and said, “I hope you don't blame yourself too much for what happened to the others. To Athena.”

“Oh, I blame everyone,” Finnick said matter-of-factly. “I even blame her, sometimes, until I remember that that's not fair.” Before Beetee could say anything to that, he said, “So how have you been healing?”

Beetee must have known that Finnick didn’t just mean physically, but that was what he focused on. “I can walk a little. I just tire so easily now. It’s much easier for me to get around like this.” He patted his wheelchair.

“And now they have you making weapons for the Mockingjay?” Finnick asked, remembering the bow and arrow Katniss had been holding the other day.

“Not just the Mockingjay,” Beetee said with a smile. “That reminds me, I’m here for a specific purpose. It seems they’re ready to discuss how they should be handling propos with Katniss. Haymitch wants people who actually know Katniss to some extent there. He sent me to make sure you actually show up.”

“Of course he did,” Finnick said. “Where is it?”

“In Command,” said Beetee. At the lost expression on Finnick’s face, he elaborated. “I can show you where it is.”

Finnick nodded and dressed into the grey uniform that was folded at the foot of his bed. When they made to leave, his doctors tried to stop him, but Beetee informed him that Finnick was given clearance by President Coin, which was something his doctors could not fight.

When they were a safe distance away from the hospital, Finnick turned to Beetee and said warily, “There’s no way Coin gave me clearance to leave, is there?”

Beetee gave a shrug. “When we heard you were back in the hospital, we figured that was the best way to make sure they would let you leave. By the time they find out, it’ll be too late.”

About halfway to Command, they were joined by a man who introduced himself as Dalton. He was from District Ten, where he worked on one of the beef ranches to maintain the genetic diversity of the herd with the use of long-frozen cow embryos. He was a refugee who made it to Thirteen on foot a few years ago. He apparently was also invited to this meeting. He was nice enough. He seemed to have a lot of preconceived notions about Finnick, none of them very nice, but he saw the mentally disoriented label on his wrist and dropped them pretty fast.

By the time they made it to Command, the rest of the party was there. Katniss was there, along with Coin and her people, Plutarch, Fulvia, Katniss’ prep team, and a group from District Twelve that he mostly didn’t recognize. They seemed to be the last ones there. Command seemed to be a high-tech meeting and war council room, complete with computerized talking walls, electronic maps showing the troop movements in various districts, and a giant rectangular table with control panels. Finnick, Beetee, and Dalton quickly joined the rest of the group around the huge table.

Haymitch quickly stood and welcomed everyone, before showing the footage that they had shot. It was somehow even worse than it had been when Finnick witnessed it live. Katniss’ voice and body had a jerky, disjointed quality, like a puppet being manipulated by unseen forces.

“Alright,” Haymitch said when it was over. “Would anyone like to argue that this is of use to us in winning the war?” No one did. “That saves time. So, let’s all be quiet for a minute. I want everyone to think of one incident where Katniss Everdeen genuinely moved you. Not where you were jealous of her hairstyle or her dress went up in flames or she made a halfway decent shot with an arrow. And not when Peeta was making you like her. I want to hear one moment where she made you feel something real.”

Quiet stretched out between them. Finnick was trying to figure out what Haymitch was getting at with this.

Finally, a girl about Katniss’ age with similar olive skin, dark hair, and grey eyes, said, “When she volunteered to take Prim’s place at the Reaping. Because I’m sure she thought she was going to die.”

“Good,” said Haymitch said. “Excellent example.” He took a notepad, a purple marker, and scribbled down: _Volunteered for sister at Reaping._ Then he looked around the table. “Somebody else.”

A rather solemn-faced bald man with dark skin and eyes, who Finnick was pretty sure was called Commander Boggs, said, “When she sang the song. While the little girl died.”

“Who didn’t get choked up at that, right?” Haymitch said, writing it down.

“I cried when she drugged Peeta so that she could get the medicine and when she kissed him goodbye!” blurted out one of Katniss’ prep team (he was pretty sure her name was Octavia), then covered her mouth, as though certain she’d done something wrong.

But Haymitch only nodded. “Oh, yeah. Drugged Peeta to save his life. Very nice.”

The moments came thick and fast and in no particular order. When she took Rue on as an ally. When she extended her hand to Chaff during the interviews. And again and again when she held out those berries that meant many different things to many different people; love for Peeta, a refusal to give in under impossible odds, defiance to the Capitol’s inhumanity. As more moments were listed, Finnick understood at last what angle Haymitch was getting at.

When they’d drawn up a satisfactory list, Haymitch held up the notepad and said, “So, the question is, what do all these things have in common?”

“They were Katniss’,” a young man of around nineteen who Finnick had talked to once before they met in Thirteen. Gale. “No one told her what to do or say.”

“Unscripted, yes!” Beetee said. He reached over and patted Katniss’ hand. “So we should just leave you alone, right?”

People laughed. Even Finnick, to his own surprise. Katniss cracked a smile.

“Well, that’s all very nice but not very helpful,” Fulvia said peevishly. “Unfortunately, her opportunities for being wonderful are rather limited here in Thirteen. So unless you’re suggesting we toss her into the middle of combat - ”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting,” said Haymitch. “Put her out in the field and just keep the cameras rolling.”

“But people think she’s pregnant,” Gale pointed out.

“We’ll spread the word that she lost the baby from the electrical shock in the arena,” Plutarch replied. “Very sad. Very unfortunate.”

The idea of Katniss going into combat was a controversial one, but Haymitch had a tight case; if she only performed well in real-life circumstances, then into them she should go. “Every time we coach her or give her lines, the best we can hope for is okay. It has to come from her. That’s what people are responding to.”

“Even if we’re careful, we can’t guarantee her safety,” said Boggs. “She’ll be a target for every - ”

“I want to go,” Katniss said suddenly. “I’m no help to the rebels here.”

“And if you’re killed?” said President Coin.

“Make sure you get some footage. You can use that, anyway.”

“Fine,” said Coin. “But let’s take it one step at a time. Find the least dangerous situation that can evoke some spontaneity in you.” She walked around Command, studying the illuminated district maps that showed the ongoing troop positions in the war. “Take her into Eight this afternoon. There was a heavy bombing this morning, but the raid seems to have run its course. I want her armed with a squad of bodyguards. Camera crew on the ground. Haymitch, you’ll be airborne and in contact with her. Let’s see what happens there. Does anyone have any other comments?”

“Wash her face,” Dalton said suddenly. Everyone looked at him. “She’s still a girl and you made her look thirty-five. Feels wrong. Like something the Capitol would do.”

Finnick decided he liked Dalton.

Coin adjourned the meeting and everyone left except Katniss and Haymitch, who were talking privately. Finnick was reeling from this meeting. They were going into District Eight. It was a chance to actually see what was happening, maybe even do something about it. Now that he was actually in the middle of all of this, instead of in his hospital bed seemingly in another world, he wanted badly to be apart of it. He looked down at himself; he’d spent over a month wasting away in the hospital and hadn’t even gone to any of his training sessions to see where he was at physically. So maybe he wasn’t the best person to bodyguard Katniss, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do anything. He could stay behind in the hovercraft with Haymitch; surely he could make himself useful there. He had not done everything that he had, gone through everything that he had, to not be part of this revolution. Maybe they were right, Haymitch and even his doctors and Plutarch. Maybe he did have some fight left in him. Maybe he owed it himself to keep moving forward. Or he owed it to Athena.

But he needed everyone else to see that too. He needed to be cleared to go on this mission.

He immediately set off to find President Coin and her people, figuring that was the best way to get clearance. He continued tying and untying his rope to remain calm, wanting to seem cool and collected when he made the request. He could see Plutarch and Coin and Boggs and a few others come into sight and quickened his pace. Just as he did, he looked down and realized he had accidentally tied his rope into a small noose. He hastened to untie it, not wanting anyone to see, but his fingers fumbled, and he ended up with a useless, tangled knot. It upset him more than it should’ve, the fact that he couldn’t fix the knot no matter how hard he tugged and yanked at it, and the knot just reminded him of Penelope and Talisa hanging from the ceiling fan of their houses in District Four, which reminded him of Athena’s face when she told him about how they had killed themselves, which reminded him of the fact that Athena was still trapped in the Capitol, dead or worse, because he and all those important District Thirteen officials left her there alone...

His chest seemed to stop working the way they were meant to, his heart seizing up and his lungs seeming to tighten and close in on themselves. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. He didn’t realize he was shaking until hands were grabbing him, holding him down. He tried to fight against them, shaking them. He did not know these people. He did not want them to touch him. He did not like how they had such little regard in the way they did. But they didn’t let go, no matter how much he fought against it, and soon they were injecting him with something. When he felt a heaviness like lead spread through his body, weighing him down, dulling all of his senses and his emotions, he recognized it at once as morphling. There was no way to resist it, no way to do anything but succumb to it as his vision soon went black.

When he woke up again, he was coming slowly back to consciousness and back to himself in his hospital bed. The morphling must have worn off, because every part of himself hurt, though it wasn’t the sort of ache that came with physical injury. Guilt threatened to eat him alive, so he, by instinct, grabbed the length of rope on his bedside table. Someone else had fixed the knot. This made him feel worse than ever, utterly useless. What good would he be when they went to District Eight if he couldn’t even -

District Eight. They were going to District Eight, right into the middle of the rebellion. Finnick still wanted to go. He needed to go. Had they already left? There was only one way to find out.

Suddenly wide awake, he leapt to his feet and ran out of the hospital. His doctors tried to stop him, but he just sprinted past them and out the doors. Making it back to the others took a long time, even as he ran through the long tunnels of District Thirteen, mainly because he had no idea where he was going, but he finally found himself slowing to a stop in front of a group consisting of Haymitch, Plutarch, and President Coin. He remembered that Coin requested that Haymitch attend the mission to District Eight and at once felt relieved; if Haymitch was here, that meant they hadn’t left yet. He just needed them to see that he was ready to help. They’d been desperate for him to step into a role as a rebel leader for weeks now, surely they would be thrilled that he was finally cooperating.

And yet when he volunteered to assist in the mission, they told him no. Repeatedly. In many different ways. Usually not quite blatantly, and if it was blatant, it was always immediately followed by explanations that were meant to be placating, pacifying, mollifying. But Finnick had spent enough time building up and telling and living lies to be able to see through all of what they were saying. He knew that they did not want him anywhere near this hovercraft. And he knew exactly why, as well.

“I’m fine,” Finnick told them, very firmly, drawing himself to his full height - which, he felt it was worth mentioning, was probably rather impressive, since he was taller than everyone in the group. “I’ve been recovering fast, you can ask Doctor Silver or any of my other doctors. I’ve even been discharged, I have my own place now - ”

“Your doctors say that you had to check back into the hospital because you had a relapse,” said Plutarch. “And you had another one just hours ago.”

“The experts say that’s all part of the recovery process,” Finnick said, trying to remain calm and collected.

“The recovery process,” Coin repeated. “As in, still in process. As in, someone I can’t justify bringing out into the open field.”

“Says the people who can justify doing it to a seventeen year-old girl,” Finnick said coolly. Before they could say anything to that, he added, “I don’t have to be on the ground, anyway. I can stay in the hovercraft with Haymitch.”

“Katniss is a different situation,” Coin said shortly, her voice cold. Finnick realized this was the first time he was seeing President Coin up close. There was something vaguely unsettling about her. She had grey eyes, but not like the grey of Katniss’ eyes or Haymitch’s or Gale’s or anyone from District Twelve’s Seam. Hers were different. It reminded him vaguely of the sludge that would sometimes accumulate during winters in District Four, the built-up substance that refused to melt away until spring finally came around to purge it from the streets. She had grey hair that fell in a pristine, unbroken sheet to her shoulders. There wasn’t a hair out of place, almost unnaturally tidy. He wondered, in some part of his mind, if it was a wig. He knew better than to ask, and also didn’t quite care enough to. Something about her made him feel distinctly messy, disheveled, unraveling, which only made pleading his case seem all the more impossible. It wasn’t quite like he felt like he didn’t have power anymore; it was more that he was being reminded more and more that he never had it. “She is the face of this rebellion, the Mockingjay - ”

“And you’ve all been spending all this time on me so that I can be some rebel leader to the cause,” Finnick said, unable to hold down his frustration, “and now that I’m here with open arms, suddenly you’ve changed your mind?”

“Nobody’s changed their minds,” Plutarch said, clearly trying to be placating. “There’s still a place for you in this fight, just... when the time is right.”

“When I’m useful to you again,” Finnick said slowly. “I do recall being considered good enough to die for Katniss not too long ago.”

“That was a different story,” Haymitch said. “You’re smart enough to see that, Finnick. This is a new world. I’m sure you’ve noticed I’m not exactly in the same place I was a month ago.”

“You played a great role in the Quarter Quell,” Coin said. “We owe you a great deal of gratitude. But those Games are over. This isn’t the arena.”

But it was the arena. This felt clear to Finnick as he looked at them all. All players, and some of them also pawns at the same time. Or perhaps Gamemakers was a more accurate term. Making moves and countermoves. Navigating this arena all the time. Maybe they couldn’t see that, but he knew someone who would.

“Where’s Katniss?” Finnick asked sharply.

“She’s in the Weapons Division,” Haymitch said, “but - ”

But Finnick was already gone, rushing towards Katniss. He would be able to appeal to her, if no one else. It was also probably good that he got away from Haymitch and Plutarch and Coin and the others before he became too agitated and lost it completely. It took him over twenty minutes to find the Weapons Division, but once he finally made it, he saw Katniss in the distance with Boggs and raced towards them immediately.

“Katniss!” he said, as he drew level with them. “Katniss, they won’t let me go! I told them I was fine, but they won’t even let me ride in the hovercraft!”

For a moment, Katniss just stared at him - then, she smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand and cried, “Oh, I forgot. It’s this stupid concussion. I was supposed to tell you to report to Beetee to Special Weaponry. He’s designed a new trident for you.”

That was enough to distract him from his distress for a moment. He felt interest stir inside him slowly. He hadn’t even held a trident since getting to Thirteen. “Really? What’s it do?”

“I don’t know,” Katniss replied. “But if it’s anything like my bow and arrows, you’re going to love it. You’ll need to train with it, though”

Finnick considered this. Now that he was actually in front of Katniss, with Boggs beside her looking as though he wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to arrest him or subdue him or leave him be, he realized that this really wasn’t much of a solution in terms of getting to District Eight. Mockingjay or not, she really didn’t have that much power. She barely managed to convince Coin to let _her_ go to District Eight, let alone someone else. And it had been so long since he’d trained at all, and after spending a month wasting away in a hospital, he was in no fit state to be a bodyguard. His mind not even be in the best place to stay in the hovercraft and be of any use. But he could start training again, maybe even with this trident... he could prove himself to be so good they couldn’t _not_ use him. He had to be the best again. He did it once before, in the academy. Perhaps he could do it again.

“Right,” Finnick said finally. “Of course. I guess I better get down there.”

“Finnick?” Katniss said. “Maybe some pants?”

He looked down at himself and, at the sight of his bare legs and slippers and the half-knotted rope still dangling from his hand, realized that he was still in his hospital gown. He had been so frantic he hadn't even stopped to change. He ran his hands through his tangle of hair and stopped to imagine how he must have looked. Disheveled and wild-eyed and desperate. No wonder anyone wanted him anywhere near that hovercraft. He wondered if he had gone mad long ago and he was just the last one to realize. But at least this explained the awkward, uncomfortable glances he had been getting ever since he raced out of the hospital. He couldn't help but find the whole thing funny, especially since District Thirteen seemed rather conservative in this area.

deviously, he whipped off his hospital gown so that he was in nothing but his underwear. “Why? Do you find this -” he struck a ridiculous, mock provocative pose - “distracting?”

Katniss laughed, both at Finnick's actions and at how deeply uncomfortable Boggs looked by them, which made Finnick grin wider too. “I'm only human, Odair.”

Katniss and Boggs rushed into an elevator before it could close, and were soon out of sight. He stared at the elevator doors, before looking down at his mostly naked body. He probably did need clothes. He had no desire to return to the hospital, though, especially after his illegal escape from the place. He would have to deal with the consequences of it eventually, he knew, but decided to avoid it at least for the time being. He wanted to see this trident Beetee was making for him first, and he was worried they would forbid him as some sort of punishment. He stumbled around lost, trying to pay more attention to his path and memorize it, until he found his compartment. He got a lot of looks sent his way and whispers were made behind hands as he passed, but he was past the point of caring about something like this. This was nothing.

Sure enough, his closet had more of the standard uniform of Thirteen for him to wear, so he put it on before heading back out in search of Special Weaponry. It turned out to be on the Special Defense level, which was deep underground. It was a beehive of rooms full of computers, labs, research equipment, and testing ranges.

When he asked for Beetee, he was directed through a maze until he at last reached an enormous plate-glass window. Inside was the only beautiful thing Finnick had seen in District Thirteen so far. It was a replication of a meadow, filled with real trees and plants and alive with hummingbirds. He stared at it longer than he might have normally, transfixed by it, because this was the first time since the rescue mission that he was seeing something other than the white and grey of District Thirteen. His eyes finally landed on Beetee, who sat motionless in his wheelchair at the center of the meadow, watching a spring-green bird hover in the air as it sipped nectar from a large orange blossom. His eyes followed the bird as it darted away, and they landed on Finnick. He gave a friendly wave for him to join him inside, so Finnick drifted over to where he was in the meadow, staring all around him. The air was cool and breathable, not hot and muggy and unpleasant the way he would expect of a place so deep underground. From all sides came the whir of tiny wings, which he would have confused with countless insect wings beating if he didn’t know any better. He wondered what fluke had to have happened for such a nice place, one of genuine peace and calm, to exist here.

Beetee's eyes were alight with excitement, contrasting with his otherwise rather weak demeanor. “Aren’t they magnificent? Thirteen has been studying their aerodynamics here for years. Forward and backward flight, and speeds up to sixty miles an hour. Here one second, gone the next. I doubt even you could take it down with your trident.”

“Probably not,” Finnick agreed. “They’re too small and too fast for that. It would take a lot of precision. It would be hard for anyone to do with any weapon. Unless you set up a trap.”

“A trap, yes,” Beetee said, thoughtful. “That was what Gale suggested. That’s if you could outsmart it, of course, but it takes a lot to ignore natural instincts to flee from danger.”

And Finnick supposed Beetee would know about this kind of thing. In his mind flashed several images; Beetee, with a plan to bring down a force field that would tear the whole world apart; a Beetee who was much younger, still a boy, setting a trap that electrocuted six tributes at once; himself at fourteen, using his net to ensnare tributes before he finished them off with his trident... they had no choice. Neither of them. Self-defense. They were all just acting in self defense... suddenly, Finnick lost all desire to talk about how to trap and kill birds that meant no harm.

“Speaking of tridents,” Finnick said, changing the subject as casually as he could manage, “Katniss said you have something for me.”

“Right. I do. Your new trident. Follow me.” He pressed a hand control on the arm of his wheelchair and wheeled out of the room. As Beetee led him through the twists and turns of Special Defense, he talked more about the trident. “Now, it's not quite ready yet. It's still in development. As you might be able to imagine, I've had my hands full developing a number of other weapons, particularly Katniss’ new bow. Still, I've made a lot of progress, and I think it's coming along quite nicely. I figured you might want to see it for yourself. Maybe it’ll take your mind off - well. Change, a distraction, can be good in times like these, I've found.”

Finnick didn't think even a new trident could take his mind off the things that had been haunting him, but he knew Beetee had a point. It was why he carried his rope with him at all hours of the day, tying it and untying it almost nonstop.

Before he could express this, they reached the entrance to the hall marked 'Special Weaponry,’ guarded by four soldiers. Finnick thought the guards would be satisfied once they checked their schedules (Finnick had most of his schedule cleared after his relapse, since his doctors figured he wasn't stable enough to continue with his regular activities, so he technically wasn't breaking any rules by being there. The guards, surprisingly, did not cause much of a fuss about it. He suspected it was partially the mentally disoriented bracelet he was wearing and partially the fact that he was with Beetee), but that was only the preliminary step. There were also DNA, fingerprint, and retinal scans, and they had to step through special metal detectors. Beetee had to leave his wheelchair behind outside, but they provided him with another one once he passed all the security checks.

“Do you have to do that every time you come down here?” Finnick asked once they were alone again.

Beetee nodded. Finnick was doubtful that anyone raised in Thirteen would be considered such a threat that all these security measures would need to be taken to guard against them. Were these measures being taken because of the recent influx of immigrants? Did the government not trust them, despite it being clear that they wanted and needed them very badly?

They encountered a second round of identification checks at the door of the armoury - just in case their DNA changed in the twenty yards walk down the hall, he supposed - before they were at last let into the weapons collection. All of Finnick's questions about District Thirteen’s extensive security measures disappeared like smoke. There was row upon row of firearms, launchers, explosives, armoured vehicles, and more.

“Of course, the Airborne Division is housed separately,” Beetee told him.

“Yeah,” Finnick said, as though Beetee had just said something very obvious to him, still staring around in awe, “of course.”

Finnick was at a loss as to how a weapon as simple as a trident would find its place amidst all this high-tech equipment, until they reached a wall of deadly melee weapons. There were mainly tridents and spears that Athena would’ve been all over if she could see them - Athena. His chest tightened painfully and he felt a clawing sensation in his throat. He took out the length of rope from his pocket and carefully, methodically, tied a tomfool knot, before undoing it again. In the time it took to complete the action, the pain ebbed away and dulled into something bearable. He focused on the tridents.

Beetee, who had been eyeing him with an odd expression that bordered on sympathetic, said, “I’ll be right back.”

He pressed a code into a panel, and a small doorway appeared. Finnick watched until he disappeared and the door slid shut, before turning back to the weapons. He had used many different tridents before, certainly, but none for military combat. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to actually touch any of these weapons, especially considering his status as mentally disoriented, but he didn’t particularly care, either. He picked up the one nearest to him. It was much heavier than it looked, making it too difficult to wield effectively. Other tridents he tried were feather light, which made it much less useful as well. Some were too short or too long for his height. Some were overly laden with gadgetry.

He had only tried out about half of the tridents when Beetee wheeled back into the room with a tall, black rectangular case perched precariously across the arms of his wheelchair. He came to a halt and lifted it towards him. “For you.”

Finnick lied the case flat on the floor and undid the latches along one side. The top opened on silent hinges to reveal, lying on a bed of crushed maroon velvet, a black trident with three tines of sharpened steel. He knew at once it was better than the others - perhaps because of the sleek design or because Beetee designed it and with Finnick in mind. He wrapped his fingers around the handle and picked it up. It was a perfect length for his height and weighed perfectly in his hands. He ran a finger along the tines carefully.

“I had to get your measurements from your doctors,” Beetee told him. “I wanted to make sure it was just right.”

“It’s amazing, Beetee.”

“Well, it will be,” Beetee said with a modest shrug, but he looked pleased, “once I’ve finished all the details.”

Finnick was going to ask what those details included, but he was distracted when he noticed something odd. He had to hold very still to be sure that he wasn’t imagining it, but soon he became certain. His trident was alive in his hands. He pressed the handle to his cheek and felt the slight hum travel through skin and bones.

“What’s it doing?”

“Saying hello,” Beetee said with a grin. “It heard your voice.”

“It recognizes your voice?”

“Only _your_ voice,” Beetee replied. “I’ve done the same with Katniss’ bow. See, if you ever actually go out into the field, you’ll be issued a gun for battle, but for the sake of propos and everything, they wanted me to make you something based purely on looks. A part of your costume, so to speak. But I kept thinking, _What_ _a_ _waste_. I mean, I know for a fact you’re going to be more confident and comfortable with a trident than a gun, and what if you really do need it some day? Not just for show or as a fashion accessory? So I kept the outside nice and simple, and as for the inside... well, that was left for my imagination.”

“What else can it do?” Finnick asked eagerly.

Beetee listed off so many special features that he added or planned to add that Finnick realized it would take ages to just remember that they all existed, let alone learn how to use them properly.

“These are best explained in practice, however,” Beetee continued, “and unfortunately many of them are not ready to be used yet. There are some you can try now though - and one in particular I’d really like for you try. Would you like to put it to use now?”

He did, of course. He was pretty sure whether or not he wanted to wasn’t the question that needed to be asked. “Am I authorized for that kind of thing? You know, considering - ”

He held up his wrist to show the hospital wristband. It was the reason he couldn’t go to District Eight, after all. Beetee considered it for a moment, thoughtful, before saying lightly, “Well, I think it should be okay so long as no one ends up dead or grievously injured.”

Finnick figured this was a reasonable request for Beetee to make, so he followed him to a target range. Beetee gave him a metal cuff and instructed him to put it on. Finnick did as he was told, putting the cuff on next to his hospital wristband that labelled him as mentally disoriented. When Beetee looked at him expectantly, Finnick stepped forward, holding up his trident, aiming it carefully at one of the dummies. He let it fly, and it immediately became clear that Finnick had not lost his skill with the trident, because it hit the dummy right in the heart.

Beetee, looking impressed, said, indicating a button on the metal cuff, “Now press that button.”

Finnick did as he was told - and, to his surprise, the trident dislodged itself from the dummy’s chest and flew right into his outstretched hand. Finnick looked over at Beetee, amazed.

“Like it?” Beetee said with a grin. “This way, in battle, you’ll be able to summon your trident back to you without having to chase it down in the middle of a fight.”

“It’s amazing, Beetee, thank you.”

“That’s only the beginning,” Beetee said. “It’ll be better once I can perfect the rest of its features. Now, if you ever want to disable these features, just tell it goodnight and it’ll go to sleep.”

Finnick didn’t know why he’d ever want to do that. Maybe to hide how much Beetee had actually done with the weapon that the government had wanted to be a simple trident made for show. Either way, he told the trident “goodnight” and, sure enough, felt it go still. Though he wanted to keep playing with it, Beetee said he was wanted in Command soon, so he placed the trident back in its box, gave Beetee the metal cuff, and followed Beetee back to the armoury.

“You’ll have time to try it out some more later on - especially once I’m finished with it. I’m sure they’ll have you do a lot of training before you can have any real fun with it, though.”

“Yeah,” Finnick said, “I’m sure they will.”

Finnick didn’t really mind it, though. He was glad he’d gone to see Beetee. Now that he had the time and space to think about his argument about whether or not he could go to District Eight more clearly, it was evident that Katniss only brought up that Beetee was making a trident for him to distract him. He didn’t really mind it, though. This visit - from talking to Beetee from being in that meadow to getting to see and play around with his trident - had been good for him. It cleared his head. He hadn’t been ready to leave Thirteen on any kind of mission, even one that was low stakes. But he could become ready. Train and work so hard and become so good again that no one could deny that he wasn’t. Build himself back up again. It took ten times as long to put yourself back together as it did to fall apart - and fallen apart he had. If he was going to be stuck here, he might as well put that time to good use.

By the time they made it back to the armoury and Beetee disappeared into that secret door to put his trident away, Finnick was as close to being in good spirits as he had been in a long time. When Beetee returned, empty-handed this time, they were going to make their way back out of Special Defense together when, to their left, a television sparked to life. They both looked towards it automatically. Panem’s seal flashed on the television as the anthem played. The screen revealed Caesar Flickerman preparing to give an interview with his usual humor and charm. Finnick just assumed they were re-airing Peeta’s interview - which was why he felt as though the floor was pulled from underneath his feet when Caesar introduced his guest.

Sitting across from Caesar, in a pretty, colourful dress and soft makeup, was Athena.

Without even realizing it, Finnick let out a noise that was either a cry or a gasp or a sigh or a combination. Everything and everyone else became irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was Athena Maris on that television screen. He rushed towards the television until he was right in front of it, as close to her as he could possibly get now, and drank in every single detail of her with desperation and a fear that he might not get a chance to do it again.

She looked fine. She looked great. She looked beautiful. What was more, she looked healthy. She hadn’t lost any weight. She had no visible injuries. All her injuries from the arena seemed to have been healed perfectly. She even looked well-rested. The Athena Maris he was looking at did not match the tortured Athena that so haunted his conscious and unconscious thoughts. But Finnick knew Athena and Capitol cosmetics too well to be fooled by this. Her prep team and stylists had done a nice, thorough job at making sure she looked like she hadn’t spent the last month or so as a prisoner to the Capitol. They made her look pretty and gentle and soft and innocent, probably to sell some sort of image that she didn’t truly believe in the rebel cause. And Finnick could see that her pretty, practiced, winning smile did not reach her eyes the way it should have. This was an act. They were making her put on another show for the benefit of the Capitol.

“Athena,” he whispered weakly. “Athena... what are they doing to you? What are they doing?”

So... Athena... welcome back,” said Caesar on the screen.

“I’m glad to be back,” she replied, smiling a little wider. “I know neither of us thought we’d ever see each other again.”

“Too right we didn’t,” agreed Caesar. “And how could we have? That last night before the Games began, those interviews... well, who would’ve ever thought we’d end up here?”

“I definitely didn’t,” Athena said. “The way everything worked out... where we’re at now... this is the last thing I wanted.”

His heart sank. Of course this was the last thing she wanted. Death was better than where she was now; there was no way that had slipped her notice.

“I’m so sorry, Thena,” he murmured, like she might hear him. “I’m so sorry...”

“Well, Athena,” Caesar said on screen, “that does beg the question, what _did_ you want? We’ve all heard Peeta’s side of the story, and he’s made it clear he was never thinking of any rebellion. He says the only thing on he and Katniss’ minds were each other. But signs do point to you being in on this rebel plan. So what did you want? What outcome were you looking for?”

Athena paused for a time, clearly trying to think of the perfect answer, since she obviously could not be truthful about her intentions during the Quell. Finnick kept his eyes glued on her, watching her with rapt attention, unable to take his eyes off her. Finally, she said, “Well, the first thing you need to understand, Caesar, is how much of a frightening time this was for us - ”

“And by ‘us,’ who do you mean exactly? Who is us?”

“I mean just about everyone,” Athena said. “Me. Finnick - ” in spite of everything, his heart jolted at the way she said his name; he had thought he’d never hear it in her voice again - “The other tributes. My mother and sister. Ever since that Quarter Quell announcement, sometimes all I could think about was how afraid I was. Not just for myself, but for everyone around me. Peeta’s description of what it’s like in that arena... it’s not a lie or an exaggeration in any way. It really is like that in there. It’s not something someone can always handle, especially not for a second time.”

“But you did handle it. Both times, you made it out.”

“I did,” Athena said with a small smile. “But you don’t know that that’s going to be the case going into the Games. You can be the best at everything, you can get a perfect score in training, you can be someone who prepared for this your whole life. It doesn’t matter. Everything changes when you’re actually in the arena. I had no idea if I was going to make it out the first time, and I definitely didn’t think I was going to make it out the second time around. I just knew I had to try. But you can try and still fail, and when you fail in the arena, the stakes are huge.”

“Failure can mean your life,” said Caesar.

“Your life,” Athena agreed, “and like Peeta said, everything that you are. And that’s another thing to be afraid of. Surviving, but losing yourself in the process. It’s so hard to keep a hold of who you are in there, and maybe this time around, it was a little easier because I knew I had friends I could trust, but it still feels so easy to lose yourself. It almost feels inevitable.”

Finnick suspected that all of Panem was watching this almost as raptly as he was. For someone to speak so candidly about the Hunger Games was rare. This kind of insight, especially after Peeta’s interview, must have felt like a rare sort of treat to everyone.

“So what do you think?” Caesar asked. “Do you feel like you’ve lost yourself?”

“Oh, no, I think I’m still more or less myself,” Athena smiled, “but it’s hard to stay that way, and it could’ve easily gone the other way. Look, the only reason I’m bringing any of this up is so that you can really get an idea of what we’re looking at here - you know, especially as tributes. We were all so scared - and why shouldn’t we be? We were facing the scariest thing we could ever do.” She got a little emotional, and Finnick could tell she was doing it to tug on Capitol heartstrings. A smart move, really. She was much more adept at playing the Capitol just right than she gave herself credit for. “We were desperate for some kind of safety - or some promise of safety. Or maybe if we did die, or we did lose ourselves, that it wouldn’t be for nothing. That it would be worth it. And I think when it came to present us with this rebel plan, they knew that and... and used it to their advantage.”

Finnick knew at once where Athena was going with her answers, realizing exactly what narrative she was weaving. She aimed to paint District Thirteen as manipulative monsters who took advantage of terrified, helpless, innocent victors. It was brilliant, really. If this wasn’t so painful to watch and he didn’t know she was going against everything she believed in and fought for so strongly to say it, he might be able to truly admire the cleverness of the move.

“Are you saying that the rebels of District Thirteen took advantage of your fear, playing into it to get you to agree to something you didn’t even understand?”

Athena’s eyes looked so lifeless they were almost painful to look at, but she hesitated for only a moment before saying, “I think they definitely needed to use every card in their deck to get people on their side. And I’m sure they weren’t above doing exactly that.”

“And you think the same of your fellow tributes?” Caesar asked. “Of Finnick and Beetee - both of whom, might I point out, are currently with the rebels - and Johanna?”

Finnick felt himself stand straighter, his breath caught in his throat, waiting for her answer.

“I think they were in exactly the same boat,” Athena said without the slightest hesitation. “We're all usually pretty smart people. It's going to take a lot of desperation and fear to agree to a plan that crazy.”

“She's protecting us.”

Finnick gave a start. He hadn't realized Beetee had rolled up beside him, watching Athena with a thoughtful look on his face. His inattentiveness would have gotten him killed in the arena, but he wasn't in the arena; instead, he was underground in District Thirteen while Athena was trapped in the Cast and giving interviews -

“She's presenting us as innocents who got tricked and manipulated by District Thirteen. That way, we might get spared should the rebels lose. It's quite brilliant of her, really.”

She was protecting them. She was protecting them. Or trying to, anyway. They had failed to keep her safe in the arena, and yet still, _she_ was doing all she could to protect _them_. Finnick did not ever deserve anyone even half as good as Athena. Nobody did. Certainly no one in District Thirteen.

He made himself refocus on the interview, just as Caesar said, “So you saw that from your situation you only had two ways to go. Either you continued on with the plan set out for you, or you hesitated and potentially lost your life. And you chose the first option.”

“That's right.”

“So was that all it was?” Caesar pressed on. “Every interaction with Katniss and Peeta? Was it all about simply putting one foot in front of the other and proceeding with the plan? Take, say, killing Brutus to save Peeta. Was that simply going through the motions of the plan - ?”

“No,” Athena said immediately. “That wasn’t just about any mission. They were two kids in danger. I wasn’t going to leave them to the wolves. Brutus was going to kill Peeta, so I stopped it. He was my ally. That means something to me, Caesar. It always has.”

“Your track record does speak for you. Even from your first Games, you always protected your allies fiercely, even when it was against your best interests.”

“It was the same for Katniss and Peeta,” Athena said firmly. “I can recognize that their lives are worth more than some ridiculous plan.”

“The sentiment is heart-warming. Truly. But I do notice, you keep condemning this plan, calling it crazy or ridiculous. And yet you agreed to it anyway.”

“Well, like I said,” Athena replied, “it was such a dark, frightening time that even the most chaotic things might sound appealing if it's presented to you just right.”

“And when you say chaos,” Caesar said, “you're referring, of course, to the uprisings that have been occurring across the country ever since the Quarter Quell?”

“I - yes,” Athena said, after a moment of hesitation. “Yes, I am. I mean, you've seen some of what's been happening, haven't you? Is there really any other word for it?

“No, I suppose there isn't. Do you then condemn the actions of the rebels in the districts? Do you think they should stop?”

Finnick was tense, holding his breath as he watched, waiting for what she would say. He hoped with everything he had that she would condemn the rebels.

 _Say yes,_ he willed her silently. _Say yes, my love. Protect yourself. Protect yourself the way I couldn't protect you._

“I think,” she said slowly, “I think we all need to think about what's at stake here. I think we need to think about things in the long term. Not just right now. Not even just tomorrow. But weeks, months, years, even decades or centuries from now. What kind of world do we want to build towards and leave behind when we die? I want it to be a good one - something that’s good for _everyone_ , don’t you?”

“Well, of course,” said a confused-looking Caesar, apparently not understanding where Athena was going with this. Finnick thought he had an idea, though. “Who wouldn't? I'm not sure what you're getting at here, my dear.”

“Don't worry, I'm getting to it,” she said reassuringly. “What I'm trying to say is, we can't build any kind of future, good or bad, if we get too caught up in violence and fighting each other. Violence consumes us, it destroys us. It destroys you in the arena. It destroyed us during the Dark Days. It never ends well. Never. And if we’re not careful right now, it could destroy us once and for all.”

“Athena,” Caesar said slowly, leaning forward in his chair, as though to really show that he was giving her his undivided attention. The rest of the country was probably doing the same, “are you calling for a ceasefire? Do you stand with Peeta Mellark in asking for an end to the war?”

_Say yes. Say yes. Please. Just say yes._

She didn’t answer at once. She looked so terrified, even as she tried so hard to hide it. The look on her face tore at him. She kept glancing at someone who was behind Caesar. A Peacekeeper, maybe. Or maybe it was President Snow himself. It didn’t seem horribly out of character for him to be present for the interview to intimidate her even more.

_Say yes. Say yes. Please. Just say yes._

With what seemed to be a great deal of effort, she finally said, “Yes. Yes, I am. I understand the fear and the anger everyone fighting must be feeling right now, but destruction will never result in anything good. Never. No matter how tempting or just it might seem at the time. It’s never the answer. I encourage everyone to realize this and lay their weapons down. Before it’s too late.”

Caesar paused for a few moments to really let her words sink in, before leaning back in his chair and saying, “Well, I’m not sure what else there is to say on the matter but that. Well said as per usual, darling.” He reached out and took her hand. Finnick’s chest tightened. He wanted to knock him out. He wanted to make sure he did not ever touch Athena again.

Athena, on the television screen, smiled and said, “Thank you, Caesar.”

“Now, what would you say to your other friends and allies from the arena? To your dear friend, Finnick, or your fellow ally, Beetee, or even the Mockingjay herself - all of whom, it’s worth noting, are with the rebels right now? I doubt the rebels will ever let them see this, but if they do, what do you want them to hear from you? If they were here in front of you right now, what would you say to them?”

Athena hesitated for a split second, before saying carefully, “I would say... I would tell them that... that they should think carefully. About who they’re with. What they’re doing. What’s already been done. I think, as a victor, I understand how they’re feeling and what they’ve been through as well as anyone. Which is why I can also say that they need to be careful. They need to think - really think - about where they are and who they're with. And about... when the fighting ends and the dust clears, where do they want to be standing? Wherever it is, they can never get there if they're killed over some senseless violence. They need to think about where they'll end up after everything is all said and done. What's the best thing for themselves. But I also want them to... to do what they know is right. To do what’s in their hearts, because I know it’ll lead them the right way. But... I care so much about them, Caesar, I just... hope they're caring for themselves in the same way.”

Finnick got her true message loud and clear. She was trying to protect them from Snow with interviews like these, but a thousand perfect interviews filled with Capitol-approved lies wouldn’t help them if they kept publicly declaring themselves as enemies of the Capitol. She wanted them to lay low, stay out of danger, and wait out the rebellion, so that they might have a chance of survival no matter who ended up winning. Protecting them. Always, always protecting them.

“I think that’s all any of us can hope for, my dear. Now,” Caesar continued, “we’re almost out of time, so I’m going to leave the floor open to you. Do you have any final thoughts, comments, statements, before we go?”

“No,” Athena smiled, “I think I’ve said all that needed to be said.”

“Very well,” Caesar replied. “It was amazing to have you here, Athena. I’m glad you’re back with us where you belong.”

Where she belonged. As if she was property of the Capitol. He wanted to attack him all over again.

Athena merely smiled again and said, “Glad to be back.”

Music played them out. Finnick tried desperately take in every last detail of Athena before the screen blacked out. The Panem seal flashed on the screen again, before it switched to a program about fashion advice.

And there she was. Definitive proof that Athena Maris was still alive. Definitive proof that she was under Capitol control. Definitive proof that she was being tortured and threatened at all times. Definitive proof of everything he had feared. The pain and the guilt threatened to overwhelm him, rising in his chest like a tidal wave.

They would think her a traitor. Many people here in Thirteen would likely think Athena was a traitor the way they thought Peeta was a traitor after his interview. They might have spent the last seventy-five years recovering from war with the Capitol and were already fighting another, but they didn't have to spend all those years directly under Capitol control. They didn't understand what it was like, how it all worked, being at the Capitol’s mercy. They perhaps thought it was a matter of simply refusing, as if saying no was ever really an option. It infuriated him to think about, that these people who didn't even know Athena would make all these incorrect assumptions about her, but a part of him also didn't care. Katniss had guaranteed immunity for the victors; as long as she didn't step out of line, Athena would be okay. If the rebels won, anyway. If they lost, then her death by the end of this war was inevitable. There was no ignoring that Athena's position was all his very worst nightmares come to life.

The thought reminded him of something. Of a dinner he had had with a Snow once during the seventy-third Hunger Games. They had been alone, and it had been terrifying, the way being around Snow often was terrifying, especially with the knowledge of his frequent use of poison. Still, Finnick had managed to hold it together and remain calm, cool, and collected - until the conversation moved to Athena.

“And how is Miss Maris?” Snow asked. “It’s been quite some time since I've last seen her.”

 _I wish it'd stay that way. I wish you'd stay away from her,_ he thought, but said, “She's good. Hard at work helping our tributes.”

“Ah, yes, your tributes,” Snow said. “Siren and Troy, if I remember correctly. Both still alive at this point in the Games, yes?”

“That's right.”

“Do you have faith in them?” Snow had asked him. “Do you think one of them might make it to the end?”

“Of course I do,” Finnick said. “We're at the halfway point and they're both still alive, that's no small feat. And they're both smart, strong fighters. Besides, I have faith in all my tributes.”

Finnick did not mention the silent breakdown Siren had every time she got a chance to sleep, nor did he mention the utter state of paranoia into which Troy had devolved. Snow would not care. Snow was the cause of this.

“Yes,” Snow mused, gazing at Finnick from across the table. “You do. Some more than others, it seems.”

Finnick's brow furrowed and his body tensed just slightly. He had said to Snow, “I don't know what you mean,” but he had had an idea.

“Well, you certainly showed more faith in Athena than many of your other tributes,” Snow pointed out.

“She gave me a lot of reasons to believe in her so strongly,” Finnick replied carefully. “I reacted accordingly.”

“Yes, our Athena is something quite special, isn't she?”

_Don't call her that. She's not yours. She's not even mine. She's not anybody's._

“But still,” Snow continued, “you showed more enthusiasm with her than even many of your lovers here in the Capitol.”

Sure enough, this conversation had gone exactly where he had expected it to go; his relationship with Athena, and any lines they might be crossing or coming close to crossing. Finnick had long since learned that there was nothing to do in these situations but deny everything profusely.

“I understand why you might be... curious,” Finnick said carefully. “Maybe you didn’t expect me and Athena to get so close. I didn’t, at first. But she’s my best friend. But that’s all. I couldn’t even think of her in any other way. I love her and I care about her a lot, but definitely not like that. Never like that. None of us have anything to worry about.”

Snow had smiled at him at that, but it was twisted and cruel and wrong.

“Oh, but Mr. Odair, you misunderstand,” he said. “Though you must never act on these feelings, I don't want you to not love her. I hope you do love her. Truly, I do. I hope you love her with every breath you breathe, with every fiber of your being. I hope you dream about her. I hope you love her so much that every time you close your eyes you see her face.”

Finnick was utterly confused. He had no idea what Snow was getting at, which was always dangerous; you had to at least try to keep up with him, or it’d cost you your life eventually.

“You see, Finnick,” Snow continued, “I want you to love her so much that you can know true fear. True fear of what I will do to her if you ever go too far. True fear of what I will do if I ever decide to take her away from you.”

Snow had always known. Snow had always known that perhaps the best way to torture Finnick Odair was to torture Athena Maris. And now he was following through on that threat that had been lingering over their heads all this time. And in between getting tortured and questioned by the Capitol as their prisoner, she was forced to dance for them as their puppet, their favourite pet or toy. And still, he had no idea exactly what they were doing to her, because they went to painstaking efforts to hide it for the cameras. But he knew that whatever it was, it could and probably would get worse. Athena had valuable information that the Capitol was desperate for, and in Snow’s eyes, there was much for which to punish her. They would only treat her worse, show her no mercy, until the time to kill her in the worst way possible -

Finnick was having trouble breathing. The air wouldn’t enter or leave his lungs the way it was supposed. Maybe the way his chest felt so painfully tight, like it was closing in on itself, was the reason why. He realized after a moment that he was crying - weeping, really - his whole body wracked with sobs. It only made it harder to breathe. Beetee was calling out to him, asking if he was okay, if he needed help, but Finnick couldn’t speak to answer his questions, and besides, it sort of sounded like he was a thousand miles away, even though he was right there and it was Athena who was so far away now...

He could feel hands on him, trying to hold him down, but he was so hysterical, so far gone now that all he did was try to shove them off him desperately. They held him fast, though, and when he felt a sharp stinging sensation, knew they were injecting him with something. Morphling, as effective as it was at dulling the extreme of all emotions, quickly made it seem like all the pain and guilt was merely floating past somewhere above him. The dose was strong, and he could feel himself go limp, could feel the drug pulling him away from consciousness. There was nothing but to let it happen, nothing but to let the blackness overtake him as he passed out, Athena’s face and the terrified look buried deep in her eyes still burning in his mind.


	5. V

**V**

 

Athena thought about Peeta's interview quite frequently - that was, when she could actually think rationally, because between the torturous interrogations and having to listen to Johanna and Peeta while they were being tortured and the television that would play all the usual Capitol propaganda whether she liked it or not and the constant pain she lived in, it was hard to get a chance. But when she could think, Peeta's interview dominated her thoughts. How the image of the healthy teenager she had seen on the screen did not match the screams and sobs she heard every day, how he must look now. All those things he said, calling for a cease-fire. The effect it might be having. His motivation for saying it, his hopes that maybe it would protect Katniss.

She wondered if she could cut some sort of similar deal. Work something out with Snow that would protect Johanna and Peeta, her mother and sister and friends back in Four, and even everyone in Thirteen, just in case the rebels lost the war. But what, though? What did she have that she could use as leverage against Snow? She couldn’t offer up her life in exchange for theirs, because it was already evident that Snow could kill her anytime he pleased, as well as Peeta and Johanna, and Finnick and Katniss and Beetee and everyone in Thirteen if he ever got his hands on them. So what was left, really? How did someone make a deal with another person when that person already held all the power? And even if there was some deal to be made, Snow was far from the most trustworthy person she knew. Was it wise to hold him to his word? Could he be trusted to stay true to it? Probably not. But it was all she had in terms of protecting the others.

But whether or not she could trust Snow didn’t matter unless she could figure out some sort of deal to trust him with, and the fact was, she had no leverage. She had nothing. She was nothing. Just some woman, all alone now, who had strayed too far from the harbour -

She felt something run down her palms. She looked down and realized she’d balled her hands up in fists so tight that her overgrown fingernails had drawn blood. She unclenched them at once, wiped the blood on her nightgown, and brought her hands to her necklace instead. She wondered where her mother and sister were now. What they were doing. If they were even remotely safe. She wondered if the not knowing would be the thing that drove her insane once and for all.

“Calypso Maris,” she murmured. “Marella Maris. Douglas Mar - ”

Before she could go any further, the door slid open. She tensed up. That door opening could mean anything from meal time to hours of more torture. These Peacekeepers came empty-handed, which meant no meal, but there was only two of them, and more of them usually accompanied an interrogation, and Philo wasn’t there to interrogate her. Her confusion was only heightened, as well as mingled with fear and anxiety, when President Snow walked into the room. She made no reaction to his presence, remaining where she was sitting on the thin mattress on the floor, but she was eyeing him carefully, trying to figure out why he was there. Was he there to interrogate her personally? He had never even set foot in her cell until now. What was different about today?

“I have good news, Miss Maris.”

“Yeah?” she said dully, already knowing the news would be nothing good. “What's that?”

“I think you're ready to face the public again,” he said. Nothing about that was good; but maybe he thought that since Athena only left her cell three times a day to go to the bathroom, that this would be a special kind of treat. “I’ve made an arrangement with Caesar Flickerman, who will be interviewing you in my mansion later this afternoon - it will be pre-recorded, of course, doing a live interview is... too much of a risk, at this point in time.”

For a long time, Athena merely stared at Snow, before she lifted her chin just slightly and said only one word.

“No.”

Snow's eyebrows lifted slightly. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me, Mr. President,” Athena said calmly. “Tell Caesar that I am very sorry, but I'm not doing any interview.”

For a moment, Snow just gazed down at her, before he said in a measured voice, “Perhaps you are less bright than I originally thought. Let me be transparent, then. I am not asking. This is an order. One you're expected to follow.”

“Or what? What are you going to do?” Athena said. She smiled. “Kill me?”

He, of course, was not going to kill her, because they both knew that was what she wanted.

“I thought you knew that there are a good many things I could do to you other than kill you.”

“And you've done most of them.”

“Most,” Snow repeated softly. “Not all.”

This, of course, was true. The last thing Athena should do was underestimate the extent of Snow's cruelty or the lengths he would go to to show it. Still, she had a plan forming in her mind rapidly, one desperate attempt to protect the ones that she loved. She wasn't going to give up on it that easily.

“What about Johanna?” she said. “You have any interviews planned for her?”

“Oh, of course not,” said Snow. “You know public appearances were never her strong suit. She could never be trained into it as easily as you, nor is she nearly as adored.”

“What about Peeta? Are you going to make him do any more?”

“I may,” Snow said. “If the occasion calls for it. He is very good, isn't he?”

Athena considered this. Johanna wasn't going to do any public appearances, but Peeta might. As long as Snow wanted to use him for interviews and the like, Peeta had a chance, but Johanna was still utterly unprotected. And there was still her mother and her sister and her friends in Four, Finnick and the others in Thirteen... this might be her only chance.

“He is,” Athena agreed. “But you’re coming to me, anyway. You’d think Peeta would be enough.”

A slight smirk crossed Snow’s puffed-up lips at that. “Peeta’s value to me does not negate yours in the slightest, my dear girl. You have much to offer me.”

“Like what?”

“You don’t miss,” he said, echoing her own words about her skill with a spear, though it was clear that he meant much more now. “You don’t miss. It might be mistaken for arrogance, if it wasn’t for the fact that you always proved to be right. And right now, the fact that you don’t miss is of great value to me.

“Sometimes, Ms Maris, whether we like it or not, whether we intend to or not, we become symbols. This world is full of them. Ms Everdeen has become a symbol of encouragement to the radicals. Any word from her can encourage people to burn this country to the ground. This needs to be stopped. But I myself am a symbol of power, of formality, of law and order. Which means I can’t always reach the people the way I might want to. I can’t reach into a living room, into the homes of the people. They need to hear it from someone familiar. Someone they might know in their daily lives. An artist, or a familiar face from the docks. A friend. This is where you come in.

“You have an effect on people, one that is hard to be matched by anyone else. Not even Finnick could quite compare in the same way. You didn’t need all the typical rules of seduction. You have a much more genuine way of charming people, one that few can resist. You have the ability to touch people, Miss Maris, in a way that I can’t. In a way that can embolden them to action. To the right _kind_ of action.”

“So you want me to keep calling for a ceasefire?” Athena said dully, not particularly surprised by this. “To continue what Peeta started?”

“You’ve understood very quickly,” Snow said with an approving nod. “Very good. Then again, I’ve always known that you and I always know how to do what needs to be done.”

“Yes,” Athena said slowly, “we do. And there’s something I want to know. And I think, considering all the emphasis you put on not lying to each other, it’s fair of me to want an honest answer.”

Snow seemed amused by her words. “Very well then.”

“Say the rebels win,” Athena said slowly, carefully. “What’s your plan then? What do you do to them?”

“I suspect you have someone more specific in your mind.”

Athena sighed, but abandoned all pretense. “Finnick. Katniss. Beetee. My mother and my sister and my friends. What will you do them if you get your hands on them?”

Snow smirked, more satisfied now that she had admitted the thing she feared most. “Well, that depends entirely on two things. How they behave in these next few months. And what you do next.”

His message was clear. If she didn’t cooperate, the chances of the people she cared about making it out of this war in good shape in the event that the Capitol won would become lower. If she did as he said, there was some chance. She knew Snow wasn’t someone who could be trusted, but this was all she had. All she was was a girl who had strayed too far from the harbour, trying to win a deadly game against a man with all the pieces.

“And make no mistake, Miss Maris,” Snow continued, stepping forward. Refusing to be looked down upon entirely by him, she made herself stand despite how weak she felt. “If you chose not to cooperate, there is much more than you think that I could use against you.”

At that moment, the television flickered to life. Athena’s eyes landed on it immediately, but instead of finding the usual Capitol propaganda, she saw something else. It was her and Finnick. In the Quarter Quell. Under the seawater. _The Lovers_ come to life, exactly like how she painted it in her mind over and over. Her heart dropped. There had been cameras after all... the video transitioned instead to footage of them hidden away in the foliage the night of the explosion, as everything was beginning to fall apart... it was dark and the ointment camouflaged them and they were so hidden by the foliage that it was hard to see clearly, but there was no denying that it was the two of them kissing.

“The footage didn’t air, of course,” Snow was saying, staring at her as her eyes stayed glued to the television, unable to look away. “But nevertheless, we caught it. And there’s more...”

And indeed there was. The scene shifted to one of Athena and Finnick kissing in his bedroom, then in his kitchen... it shifted again, and her stomach lurched. It was the two of them the night before the Quarter Quell began. The two of them kissing, removing each other’s clothes, in Finnick’s bed... she felt nauseous. Like Snow had taken these moments from them, twisted them and perverted them and tainted them. Eventually, she had to look away. When she couldn’t hear anymore noise, she knew it had been shut off and looked up slowly, her eyes landing on Snow, who was regarding her with triumph in his eyes, knowing he had gotten under her skin.

“If I remember correctly,” he was saying, “you referred to him as your friend. Your best friend. Perhaps you and I have very different ideas of what friendship entails.”

Athena didn't speak. She couldn't bring herself to do it.

“It would be so very easy,” Snow said softly, “to show the people what you tried so hard to hide...”

The implication of his words were heavy. Athena and Finnick, and thus their loved ones, were hanging by a very thin thread, because the Capitol apparently still loved them. If they saw this footage and were forced to come to the realization that they didn’t belong to them, that would ruin everything. Any safety that they had, and thus their loved ones had, would be ruined. She had to cooperate. There was nothing for her to do but comply.

For a long time, she merely stared at Snow. Then, she lifted her chin, staring at him more squarely and said, “When do I go for the interview?

Snow smiled, satisfied. “Not for a few hours, but first you need to prepare. You’ll be escorted to where you need to go.”

Immediately, the two Peacekeepers closed in on either side of her. She didn’t look away from Snow, not even daring to blink, until they were tying the blindfold around her eyes, obscuring her vision, and leading her roughly out of her cell. By the time they were turning a corner, she could hear someone screaming. It didn’t sound like Johanna or Peeta. The screams sounded so pained that it did not make her feel any better.

 

*

 

The car ride was so short that Athena suspected that she had only been taken from the Training Center to the Remake Center. Once her blindfold was removed and the Peacekeepers took a step back, allowing her a good look at the place, she knew at once that this was true. The room was plain, with white walls and ceiling and fall, illuminated with bright fluorescent light, with nothing but a bare metal table and the door. The same room she was put in during both of her Games to be made up for the opening ceremonies.

That wasn’t what really caught her attention, though. It was, in reality, the fact that they were not alone. Standing in the middle of the room, huddled together as though frightened of what they were seeing, brightly coloured as always, were Tatiana, Syrio, Ajax, Leto, and Hestia. None of them spoke. They stared at her with wide, sometimes unnaturally coloured eyes. She had thought she was never going to see them again. The thought had made her sad at the time, but it was necessary. The only way. And now they were here. In front of her. About to dress her up and make her up again.

Athena took one good, long look at them, and threw up on the spot.

 

*

 

Avoxes came in, the vomit was cleaned, Tatiana and Syrio left to prepare her outfit, and her prep team began their work on her. They must have had their work cut out for her, considering she was exhausted and drained and broken and they had to make her look otherwise. It was, surprisingly, much of the same stuff they normally did; her nails clipped and filed to a rounded perfection, her body hair being waxed off, her skin being scrubbed at thoroughly and polished into smooth, glowing satin, her hair styled, and her makeup done. In every way, she was being the perfect person to work on. She didn’t speak. Didn’t protest. Didn’t make even the tiniest of sounds. And even during the most painful parts of the waxing, she didn’t so much as flinch. She was utterly still and silent. A doll to dress up to their heart's’ content, lifeless and limp and yielding.

But if she thought she felt tense, her prep team was something else entirely. Gone was the usual babble and chatter about fashion and gossip and their ridiculously luxurious lives. Gone were even the tears that had persisted all throughout the last time they had prepped her. There was nothing now but heavy silence between them, an insistent avoidance of her gaze like she might turn them to stone, and almost jerky movements whenever they weren’t working on making her pretty. It was like they were being forced to come in contact with a ghost. And maybe that was really what they felt like. Forced to reunite with someone who was supposed to have died. Forced to reunite with someone who should be dead. Someone who would have done everyone a favour if she had died. She didn’t know what she could possibly say to them, so she said nothing at all. Maybe if she really nailed this interview, they would act normally around her again. She wasn’t sure if this was something she wanted or even cared about anymore.

In the silence, she made herself think about this interview. It was clear what she had to do. It was clear she had little other choice. But she would still do it, and there was nothing that could make this any better. She wondered how Caesar react to her. In his usual warm, welcoming, friendly manner? Or would he be cold because it seemed to everyone that she was involved in the rebel plan? She had to be loved in the Capitol still, otherwise Snow wouldn’t be making her do public appearances. Still, if her prep team was so stiff and nervous around her when they had once been bursting with affection for her, what should she really be expecting? Not that that affection had ever come from anything genuine. She'd always known that, that their supposed love came from a sense of ownership over her more than anything else. She'd always seen them as brightly coloured fish, but she knew she'd always been their pretty exotic pet from District Four, in their eyes. In this Quarter Quell, it seemed she had been disobedient, and that, of course, simply would not do.

That was part of what these public appearances were about, she knew. It wasn't just about encouraging a cease-fire. It was also about making sure everyone saw that she would always be the property of the Capitol, that she would always be their pet. It was about making sure Athena could never forget it. And if Athena wanted any shot at protecting the ones she cared about, she would have to accept it.

Before she could dwell on the topic any further, she realized her prep team had finished prepping her. They moved to stand in front of her a few feet away, close together, as though they figured there was less of a chance she would attack if they stuck together. And wasn't she a monster, after all? They had all seen what she had done in her first Games. They had all seen what she had done to Brutus not too long ago. Perhaps the execution of this rebel plan during the Quarter Quell had made them realize that there was no reason why she couldn't do it to them.

Several times, Leto opened his mouth as though to speak, made no sound, and closed it again. He couldn't seem to get the words out.

Athena was pretty sure she knew what he was trying to express, though, so she said, speaking for the first time since she'd first laid eyes on them, “I'll wait here for Tatiana and Syrio.”

Ajax, Leto, and Hestia all nodded, now looking close to tears, before rushing out of the room. In the few seconds as the door was closing behind them, Athena could see the Peacekeepers guarding the door, but she was left alone inside the room. She sat up straighter on the metal table, wrapping the thin silk robe more tightly about herself. Her skin was still tingling a bit from being waxed and plucked and scrubbed, though she felt disconnected from it, like it happened to her in a dream from which she just awoke.

As the feeling was fading, the door opened to reveal Tatiana and Syrio. Athena made herself stand, but she didn't saying anything, instead watching them carefully.

In a brave attempt at professionalism,Tatiana said, looking her up and down, “Your prep team did a good job on you.”

There was no mirror for Athena to see how she actually looked, but she said, “They always do.”

There was a painfully long silence, before Syrio held up the dress that was currently being covered up. “We have your outfit. We should hurry, your interview's in just over an hour. Take that thing off and close your eyes.”

Figuring she should at least be glad they weren't blindfolding her, she did as she was told, shrugging off the robe and closing her eyes. Her prep team and stylists had seen her naked more times than she could count, and she had never felt uncomfortable, but today was different. Today it was impossible to be comfortable at the fact that they were seeing her and touching her and turning her into what they wanted to make her. She remained quiet and compliant, however.

She could feel the light material of the dress slide over her body, allowed Tatiana and Syrio to help her into her heels, felt them fix her hair and adjust her makeup. They then instructed her to move around in the dress and shoes, which fit her perfectly. They seemed pleased with their work, despite the tense atmosphere, but she still couldn't see herself to know how she actually looked for herself.

At that moment, the two Peacekeepers were entering the room, informing them it was time to get to her interview. They made to put the blindfold around her. Tatiana and Syrio protested at first, since it might ruin her makeup, but when the Peacekeepers insisted on it roughly, they gave in and agreed to fix her makeup once they were at Snow's mansion.

It was a short ride to the president's mansion, but they waited until they had entered the mansion, walked through corridors and up staircases, and finally reached the room where the interview would take place before at last removing her blindfold. Tatiana and Syrio hastened to fix her makeup, which she figured must be slightly smudged now. As they fixed her up, her eyes scanned the room. They seemed to be in the same place that Peeta's interview was done, a room decorated with plush furniture and walls lined with bookshelves. It was a cozy, rather intimate space, especially for Snow's mansion, which she supposed made it perfect for these sort of interviews. The room was filled with all sorts of filming equipment, along with mirrors everywhere, and as Tatiana and Syrio finished with her makeup and stepped aside, she could take in her appearance at last.

To the credit of her stylists, it really didn't look like she had been tortured at all. Someone who didn't know any better wouldn't suspect a thing. Her dark brown skin was smooth and glowing and flawless. Her hair was styled in the way she had become known for; two braids tied back around her head like a circlet, while the rest of her hair fell in carefully styled and controlled soft curls. Her makeup was a complete contrast to what they had done with her for her last interview; instead of dramatic shadows and highlights of black and gold that gave her a mysterious sort of look, the look they went for this time was much softer. Her eye makeup used silvers and pinks, the same light shade of pink that her lips were painted. She seemed to glow from silvery and rosy highlights.

And then there was a dress. It was beautiful, to be sure. It was made of some soft material, a mix of soft oranges and pinks and yellows and blues and purples and greens. They should have all clashed horribly, yet for some reason Tatiana and Syrio managed to make them blend together flawlessly, like they were made to come together like this. If she shifted the skirt of her dress, the colours seemed to swirl around. She suspected it would be something beautiful to watch if she twirled around. Maybe Caesar would ask her to during the interview.

Everything about how they made her look - from her hair to her makeup to this dress (despite the rather generous view of her chest it offered and the way it clung to her curves) - had a clear purpose. As she looked into the mirror, she did not see a tortured, hopeless, broken woman, a fool who had strayed too far from the harbour, a dead girl walking. She did not see Athena Maris. She was looking instead at someone else; someone softer, prettier, more innocent, more delicate. Like a doll, one that belonged to the Capitol and always would. Someone who would never even think of rebelling against the Capitol. Someone who couldn't even if she tried. Snow's orders, of course. She made herself look away before she threw up all over again.

They weren't the only ones in the room. Besides the camera crews, Caesar Flickerman was also already there, with his painted face and twinkling suit and the same baby blue hair as before. Apparently, times were so tough Caesar hadn't even had the time to re-dye his hair. He was adjusting his suit when he caught sight of her and began to walk towards her. Athena had no idea what to expect from him in this moment, no idea what he would do. For one absurd moment, she wondered if he would hit her. In that moment, it seemed possible. But all he did when he drew level with her was pull her into a hug like they were old friends reuniting after a long time apart. Athena was a little confused, but she simply hugged him back and tried to act like she was pleased to see him. It had been so long since someone had touched her in a way that wasn't meant to harm her, she could almost convince herself that she actually was.

He kept her at arm’s length when they pulled away. She took the time to study his face carefully. Warm, welcoming, but a little tense, and his eyes were slightly clouded. He wasn’t as happy to see her as he made it seem with that hug, but if she managed to get this interview right, he would be more than willing to take her back as one of his favourite district pets again.

“Athena,” he said, “how are you?”

“Good,” she lied immediately. “Great. What about you? I bet you thought you’d never see me again, let alone interview me.”

“And I bet you thought the same thing,” Caesar replied. Athena lowered her gaze, since this was admittedly true. Caesar took her hands in his and said, “But we’re here now, for better or for worse. And I’m quite excited to be interviewing you again.”

“Yeah,” Athena lied again, “me too.”

“Now,” he was saying, “what happened that last night in the arena, it’s all very confusing and suspicious, even with Peeta’s recount on what happened. You should know - I won’t hold back on asking the hard questions, my darling.”

Athena made herself smile. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Caesar.”

He smiled back at her. Her eyes swept the room again. She wondered what they were all waiting for; it seemed everyone who was needed to film this interview was already here. The only person who probably ought to be here but wasn’t, conspicuous in her absence, was Alayne. Had she refused to be anywhere near Athena? Did she even have the power to refuse such a thing, if she was being demanded by Snow? Or had she not been asked to be here? Was she even aware that Athena was in the Capitol?

It only occurred to her then that people might not actually know that she was in the Capitol. Not just Alayne, but her mother and sister and friends in Four. They might have no idea at all where she was. This interview might very well be how they found out. Something about this made the interview all the more worse.

Before she could ask anyone who might be able to tell her about Alayne, President Snow walked into the room. Apparently, he was who everyone had been waiting for, because the camera crews were immediately setting to work at a rapid pace to ensure everything was ready to go.

“That means it's show time,” Caesar said, having noticed Snow’s entrance. He placed a hand on Athena's shoulder good naturedly. “Come on.”

Trying not to think about the fact that Snow hovering over them would undoubtedly make this interview much worse, Athena followed Caesar across the room. They settled into two comfortable chairs across from each other in front of multiple cameras positioned at different angles. Snow settled himself into a chair out of sight of the cameras, but still facing her. Just so that she could never forget that he was watching, she supposed.

Tatiana and Syrio rushed forward to quickly straighten out her dress and adjust her makeup one last time, someone counted them down, and then they were recording. Caesar took a few minutes to greet the audience with the usual humor and charm with which he started every show. In that time, since Athena didn’t really have to do anything, she made sure she looked put together. She sat up straight, her shoulders pushed back slightly, her head held high, her features carefully arranged into that cool, haughty smirk.

“And today, we have a very special guest,” Caesar was saying, “from the ocean to the arena and now here, we have none other than Athena Maris to give us her insight into the Quarter Quell and more recent events. So... Athena... welcome back.”

“I'm glad to be back,” she lied at once, making herself smile a little wider. “I know neither of us thought we'd ever see each other again.”

“Too right we didn't,” Caesar agreed. “And how could we have? That last night before the Games began, those interviews... well, who would've ever thought we'd end up here?”

“I definitely didn't,” Athena said. “The way everything worked out... where we're at now... this is the last thing I wanted.”

Which was true. Technically, anyway. She would’ve rather died than end up here, in Snow’s control. And she certainly had never wanted for Johanna and Peeta to end up here, either. She wished, every second of the day, that it had never come to this.

“Well, Athena, that does beg the question,” he said, “what _did_ you want? We’ve all heard Peeta’s side of the story, and he’s made it clear that he was never thinking of any rebellion. He says the only thing on he and Katniss’ minds were each other. But signs do point to you being in on this rebel plan. So what did you want? What outcome were you looking for?”

Athena didn’t speak right away. She thought about her answer very carefully. She could feel Snow’s fixed gaze on her, just waiting for her to misspeak so he could punish her and everyone she loved for it. She could not afford to mess this up.

“Well,” she said, “the first thing you need to understand, Caesar, is how much of a frightening time this was for us - ”

“And by ‘us,’ who do you mean exactly?” he asked. “Who is us?”

“I mean just about everyone,” Athena said. “Me. Finnick. The other tributes. The other victors back home. My mother and sister. Ever since that Quarter Quell announcement, sometimes all I could think about was how afraid I was. Not just for myself, but everyone around me. Peeta’s description of what it’s like in that arena... it’s not a lie or an exaggeration in any way. It really is like that in there. It’s not something a person can always handle, especially not for a second time.”

“But you did handle it,” Caesar pointed out. “Both times, you made it out.”

“I did,” Athena agreed with a small smile. “But you don’t know that that’s going to be the case going into the Games. You can be the best at everything, you can get a perfect score in training, you can be someone who prepared for this your whole life. It doesn’t matter. Everything changes when you’re actually in the arena. I had no idea if I was going to make it out the first time around, and I definitely didn’t think I was going to make it out the second time around. I just knew I had to try. But you can try and still fail, and when you fail in the arena, the stakes are huge.”

“Failure can mean your life,” Caesar said.

“Your life,” Athena agreed, “and, like Peeta said, everything that you are. And that’s another thing to be afraid of. Surviving, but losing yourself in the process. It’s so hard to keep a hold of yourself in there, and maybe this time around, it was a little easier because I knew I had friends I could trust, but it still feels so easy to lose yourself. It almost feels inevitable.”

“So what do you think? Do you feel like you’ve lost yourself?”

“Oh, no, I think I’m still more or less myself,” Athena lied with a smile, “but it’s hard to stay that way, and it could’ve easily gone the other way. Look, the only reason I’m bringing any of this up is so that you can really get an idea of what we were looking at here - you know, especially as tributes. We were all so scared - and why wouldn’t we be? We were facing the scariest thing you could ever do.” She made herself get a little emotional to really drive her point home. “We were desperate for some kind of safety - or some promise of safety. Or that maybe if we did die, or we did lose ourselves, that it wouldn't be for nothing. That it would be worth it. And I think when it came time to present us with this rebel plan, they knew that and... and used it to their advantage.”

“Are you saying that the rebels of District Thirteen took advantage of your fear, playing into it to get you to agree to something you didn't even understand?” Caesar asked.

For a split second, Athena hesitated. Snow gave a slight, approving nod, which meant that he approved of the narrative that Athena was creating of the rebels being manipulators who took advantage of scared, innocent people. It was what he wanted her to say. And yet it was so difficult; the words got stuck in her throat, as though her body refused to let her say such lies. She hated it, having to condemn the rebellion when she had wanted it for so long, when she risked so much for it, when those she loved in Four would hear her, when Finnick and everyone in Thirteen would hear her, when Johanna and Peeta would hear her... but Snow wanted her to say it, and if she wanted any chance to protect them, then she had no other choice.

“I think they definitely needed to use every card in their deck to get people on their side,” Athena finally said, as much as it tore at her. “And I'm sure they weren't above doing exactly that.”

“And you think the same of your fellow tributes?” Caesar asked. “Of Finnick and Beetee - both of whom, might I point out, are currently with the rebels - and Johanna?”

“I think they were in exactly the same boat,” Athena replied at once. “We’re all usually pretty smart people. It’s going to take a lot of desperation and fear to agree to a plan that crazy.”

“You think the plan was crazy?”

“Of - of course I do. You saw the results of it, didn't you? We've had nothing but chaos ever since. It was so hard to do, especially knowing, every step of the way, that I was forced to lie to Katniss and Peeta. That was one of the hardest parts.”

“Yes, Katniss and Peeta,” Caesar said. “Let's talk about them for a while. Peeta insists that he and Katniss were completely ignorant about the plan. Meaning you were protecting them without them having any reason as to why. Peeta mentioned the fact that you saved him before Brutus could kill him, even going so far as to finishing the job yourself. Did you ever have moments of doubt? In the arena, Peeta himself mentioned that you neglected to protect Finnick, your closest friend, or even yourself in an attempt to protect him and Katniss. Did you ever wonder if it was worth it?”

“I think you wonder that all the time in the Games, whether you’re apart of some bigger plan or not,” Athena said carefully. “You always wonder if it’s worth all the suffering, all the pain, all the killing and blood and death. That question never really goes away in the arena. At least, it didn’t for me, not in my first Games or my second. But you keep going anyway. The arena doesn’t give you any time for doubts or second thoughts. You act, you keep moving. Either that or you die.”

“So you saw that from your situation you only had two ways to go,” said Caesar. “Either you continued on with the plan set for you, or you hesitated and potentially lost your life. And you chose the first option.’

“That's right.”

“So was that all it was?” Caesar said. “Every interaction with Katniss and Peeta? Was it all about simply putting one foot in front of the other and proceeding with the plan? Take, say, killing Brutus to save Peeta. Was that simply going through the motions of the plan - ?”

“No,” Athena said. “That wasn’t just about any mission. They were two kids in danger. I wasn’t going to leave them to the wolves. Brutus was going to kill Peeta, so I stopped it. He was my ally. That means something to me, Caesar. It always has.”

“Your track record does speak for you,” Caesar mused. “Even from your first Games, you always protected your allies fiercely, even when it was against your best interests.”

“It was the same for Katniss and Peeta,” Athena said firmly. “I can recognize a that their lives are worth more than some ridiculous plan.”

“The sentiment is heart-warming,” Caesar said, “truly. But I do notice, you keep condemning this plan, calling it crazy or ridiculous. And yet you agreed to it anyway.”

“Well,” Athena said, “like I said, it was such a dark, frightening time that even the most chaotic things might sound appealing if it’s presented to you just right.”

“And when you say chaos, you're referring, of course, to the uprisings that have been occurring across the country ever since the Quarter Quell?”

“I - yes,” Athena said, swallowing down disgust at Snow and at herself. “Yes, I am. I mean, you’ve seen some of what’s happening, haven’t you? Is there really any other word for it?”

“No,” Caesar admitted, “I suppose there really isn’t. Do you then condemn the actions of the rebels in the districts? Do you think they should stop?”

“I think,” she said slowly, “I think we all need to think about what’s at stake here. I think we need to think about things in the long term. Not just right now. Not even just tomorrow. But weeks, months, years, even decades or centuries from now. What kind of world do we want to build towards and leave behind when we die? I want it to be a good one - something that’s good for _everyone_ , don’t you?”

“Well, of course,” Caesar replied. “Who wouldn’t? I’m not sure what you’re getting at here, my dear.”

“Don’t worry, I’m getting to it,” she assured him. “What I’m trying to say is, we can’t build any kind of future, good or bad, if we get too caught up in violence and fighting each other. Violence consumes us, it destroys us. It destroys you in the arena. It destroyed us during the Dark Days. It never ends well. Never. And if we’re not careful right now, it could destroy us once and for all.”

“Athena,” Caesar said, leaning forward in his chair slowly, “are you calling for a ceasefire? Are you standing with Peeta Mellark in asking for an end to the war?”

Athena did not want to say yes. She did not want to agree to this. But she knew she must, so she swallowed down bile and hesitation and disgust and anger and said, “Yes. Yes, I am. I understand the fear and the anger everyone fighting must feel right now, but destruction will never result in anything good. Never. No matter how tempting or just it might seem at the time. It’s never the answer. I encourage everyone to realize this and lay their weapons down. Before it's too late.”

Caesar paused a few moments to let her words really sink in, which only made Athena feel worse, before leaning back in his chair and saying, “Well, I’m not sure what else there is to say on the matter but that. Well said as per usual, darling.” He reached out and took her hand at that.

Athena forced herself to smile, saying, “Thank you, Caesar.”

“Now, what would you say to your other friends and allies from the arena?” Caesar asked. “To your dear friend, Finnick, or your fellow ally, Beetee, or even the Mockingjay herself - all of whom, it’s worth noting, are with the rebels right now? I doubt the rebels will ever let them see this, but if they did, what would you want them to hear from you? If they were here in front of you right now, what would you say to them?”

Athena hesitated, thinking carefully, before she spoke. “I would say... I would tell them that... that they should think carefully. About who they’re with. What they’re doing. What’s already been done. I think, as a victor, I understand how they’re feeling and what they’ve been through as well as anyone. Which is why I can also say that they need to be careful. They need to think - really think - about where they are and who they're with. And about... when the fighting ends and the dust clears, where do they want to be standing? Wherever it is, they can never get there if they're killed over some senseless violence. They need to think about where they'll end up after everything is all said and done. What's the best thing for themselves.But I also want them to... to do what they know is right. To do what’s in their hearts, because I know it’ll lead them the right way. I care so much about them, Caesar, I just... hope they're caring for themselves in the same way.”

It was the closest thing to any kind of a subtle message that she could send to those she cared for in Thirteen. Hopefully, they got the message that she was trying to protect them from Snow, but she could only do so much if they kept publicly declaring themselves enemies of the Capitol. She also hoped that her words then, if nothing else, made it clear that she was only saying these things because she had to, not because she actually meant them.

“I think that's all any us can hope for, my dear,” said Caesar comfortingly. “Now, we're almost out of time, so I'm going to leave the floor open to you. Do you have any final thoughts, comments, statements, anything before we go?”

But Athena had nothing left to say. She didn't think she could stomach saying any more. Besides, this interview had gone well and she didn't want to risk ruining it somehow.

“No,” she said with a smile. “I think I've said all that needed to be said.”

Involuntarily, she glanced over at Snow at that. For what felt like several long, suspended moments, he merely stared at her, before he gave the tiniest of nods. A sign of approval. She had done what he wanted her to do. She wished she could feel any relief. It was hard to ignore that there was no trusting Snow's word. It was entirely possible he made her do all this just to torture and kill her loved ones the minute he got his hands on them regardless...

“Very well,” Caesar said easily. “It was amazing to have you here, Athena, I'm glad that you're back with us where you belong.”

Where she belonged. To the Capitol. Always, always to the Capitol. She had been a fool to think it could ever be different.

All she did, though, was smile and say, “Glad to be back.”

Caesar signed off, and just like that, the show was over. Immediately, the camera crew began packing up all their equipment. Athena and Caesar both got to their feet.

“You did wonderful, Athena,” Caesar told her, and she must have, because something about his tone was warmer than it had been when they first greeted each other. She had convinced him, which meant she would probably convince the Capitol. And the rest of Panem. Who knew what damage she might have caused to the rebel movement?

Athena smiled, and was about to respond, when the two Peacekeepers appeared on either side of her and whisked her away roughly. Tatiana and Syrio hurried after them, struggling to keep up and looking distinctly uncomfortable at the force being used on her. She was taken back to the Remake Center, where she was stripped of her pretty makeup and beautiful dresses, replaced by the plain white dressing gown they'd given her, until she was just a foolish woman who had strayed too far from the harbour again. Athena looked down at her body, felt her now bare face, and actually felt like herself again.

There was no time to say anything to Tatiana and Syrio, not even a goodbye, which Athena thought might be a good thing since she didn't know what she would've said. Regardless, before anything could be said or done, the Peacekeepers blindfolded her again and were shoving her away. In the brief car ride from the Remake Center to the Tribute Center, the guards on either side of her, Athena ran a finger along the back of her hand, which now felt soft and smooth, and wished she could tear all her skin off.

There was company waiting for her back in her cell. Philo was there, flanked by two other Peacekeepers and accompanied and the blonde doctor and her brown-haired assistant. Even though she could not have expected anything else, her stomach flipped and her heart dropped. Another interrogation. More torture.

“Done getting your close-up?” Philo asked her, thin lips curving into a slight sneer.

Athena didn’t say anything. She had a strict policy with her interrogators and her torturers, especially Philo, which was that she didn’t say anything to them. One, because if she spoke to them even once, they might get the idea that they could push her to say more and torture her worse than ever. And two, no matter how badly they did torture and taunt her, she never, ever wanted them to get the impression that they were getting under her skin. Not if she could help it. So Athena merely stared at Philo from across the room and said nothing.

His face hardened at the lack of response. Athena didn't see how he could possibly be surprised. She wondered how many times they would have to do this until they realized that she would never talk.

“Tie her down,” he said shortly, looking to the Peacekeepers.

Immediately, the Peacekeepers grabbed hold of her and shoved her onto the bed with perhaps a little too much force to use on someone who was not resisting. She was strapped down to the thin mattress until she couldn’t shift or move an inch. They forced food and drink down her mouth and injected her with all sorts of substances that made her feel dangerously nauseous, made her skin feel like it was on fire, like her organs were collapsing upon themselves, like her muscles were being stabbed over and over by white-hot knives. Philo questioned her all the while, asking her over and over again about what the rebel plan was and what was District Thirteen doing and what was their next move and what was the Mockingjay’s plan and where was she now, telling her not to lie because they knew she knew everything and that they would keep going until she said it all to them. The pain was excruciating, and sometimes it was so much that she blacked out from it for a few seconds before coming to again, but she still did not talk. She remained resolutely silent, even going so far as to biting down on her lips until they bled to keep from any words from slipping out of her mouth accidentally in the midst of all the pain (and to muffle her cries of pain). She gave Philo no answers, and she didn’t beg for mercy, either. She lied there and took everything they gave her.

She didn’t know for sure how many hours it went for, but she was close to passing out again when they finally stopped. Philo and the doctors left first, though not before Philo looked down at her in disdain and spat on her. Only then did the Peacekeepers free her from the restraints holding her down and leave. They always did this. Maybe they were worried Athena would attack Philo or one of the doctors. It was tempting, sometimes. But she was far too weak to even sit up straight, let alone fight someone. All she could bring herself to do was wipe the saliva off of her cheek before the lingering pain was too much and she was too weak to stay awake, passing out again.

Athena woke up again to the sound of Panem’s national anthem playing. She gave a start, her eyes flying open. She turned over in bed, propping herself up on her elbows, and saw that the television was on. She thought at first it would be more propaganda or some mindless program they loved to watch so much here, which was why she was surprised to see Caesar Flickerman preparing for an interview - for her interview, revealed when Caesar began introducing her and she appeared on screen. Athena hadn't been expecting this; they must have waited weeks to air Peeta's interview, she thought they would wait a little longer to air hers. Maybe they thought now was the best time, especially so soon after Peeta's interview since she had reinforced so much of what he said.

There was no way for her to block it out. Even if she closed her eyes or turned away, it was too loud for her to drown it out. She had no choice but to watch it. She sat up straighter, bringing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs, and watched the interview.

Her stylists and prep team did a good job on her. She looked perfect. There was really no other way to describe it. She looked perfect. She especially looked perfect for someone who had been imprisoned and tortured regularly for what was probably at least a month by now. The dress fit her perfectly and the makeup seemed to make her glow. She looked beautiful and soft and gentle and innocent and healthy and even happy. There was something about her practiced, winning smile that didn't reach her eyes, but she doubted anyone in the Capitol would notice.

Once again, Athena didn't recognize herself at all. She didn't recognize the face she was looking at, the voice with which she spoke, and especially not the words that left her painted lips. She hated every word that was leaving her mouth, every lie, every call to the rebels to lay down their weapons when it was the last thing she thought they should do.

There was no remote control in the room. She had no way of turning it off or at least turning down the volume. There was no way for her to get rid of or block out Caesar and this stranger who shared her name. There was nothing at all that she could do but watch and listen to the interview unfold until it was finally over, music playing them out and the symbol of Panem flashing on the screen. Next came a program about all the best fashion tips and tricks for the season. Athena was barely paying attention, though.

She thought about how her loved ones would have to see this. Her mother, Calypso, Annie, Hudson, Roman, Casper, Noah, Murphy, Lily, all back in District Four, perhaps all involved in the rebellion in various ways. She thought about how Finnick and Katniss and Beetee would probably see it too. She thought about how Peeta, Peeta who was only here because she had failed to protect him, would see it. She thought about Johanna, Johanna who she had also failed to protect, Johanna who was being tortured just as badly, if not worse, than she was, would see it. It made her so sick that she almost threw up again, but no bile rushed up her throat the way she expected.

She wondered, in some part of her mind, if she and Peeta were traitors to the rebels now. The thought made her laugh, her laughter mirthless yet slightly uncontrollable, but she wanted to scream with frustration over it.

 _I’m here because of your plan,_ she thought. _I’m stuck here, reduced to this, because I agreed to your plan. Now I’m a traitor to you?_

If they did think she was a traitor, then she wouldn't survive this war no matter how it ended. If the Capitol won, Snow would eventually kill her for involvement in the rebel plan, and if the rebels won, they would probably kill her for her perceived affiliation with the Capitol. She would be condemned to death no matter what happened. It was awful and infuriating and terrifying, but she couldn't even bring herself to be truly upset about it. This realization of this reality only made her laugh more. It was only when she began to wonder if this would affect anyone else in her life that the laughter died out. Snow was liable to hurt any one of her loved ones no matter what agreement they had between them, she knew that already. But what about District Thirteen? What would they do to her mother and sister, who were only in this mess because of her? What would they do to Annie, whose words or actions might be misconstrued as traitorous even though she meant no harm? What would they do to Finnick?

She couldn’t even run through her list of names to calm her back down, because it only brought about more guilt. It all made her nauseous, and before she knew it, bile was rushing up her throat and she was hunched over and retching up what the little contents of her stomach, throwing up all over again. She collapsed back onto the thin mattress, and was pulled back into unconsciousness as soon as her head hit the mattress.

When she woke up again, the vomit was gone and two guards were standing over her. A little startled, she straightened up. Only two of them. Not enough for an interrogation. They weren’t bringing her a meal. And Snow wasn’t with them, nor was anyone else. Before she could deduce why, then, they were here, they were forcing her to her feet, blindfolding her, and guiding her away from her cell roughly. She didn’t bother asking questions, even as they left the Training Center into the open air outside and she could feel herself being shoved into another car. She would find out soon enough.

When they finally stopped moving and her blindfold was removed, she found herself in the Remake Center. Across from Athena and the two Peacekeepers was Ajax, Leto, and Hestia, who were all staring at her apprehensively. To her credit, Athena did not throw up again, which she was pretty sure made this a lot easier for everyone. She still didn’t know what was going on, though. Snow couldn't possibly want her to do another interview already, could he? What new things could she and Caesar possibly talk about after such a short period of time? Before she could ask, the Peacekeepers left the room, where she knew they would position themselves right outside the door. For a long time, Athena and Ajax, Leto, and Hestia all stared at each other.

“President Snow,” Leto said finally. “President Snow has some events lined up that he wants you to go to. Some dinners, a few luncheons, lots of parties, a photoshoot or two. We’re here to prepare you for that.”

Of course. She shouldn’t even be surprised, really. He had said he thought she was ready to face the public again. Of course that would mean more than just interviews. Snow always took more. Why would this be any different?

To their credit, her prep team was a little less stiff and tense today. Perhaps she’d managed to convince them through her interview that she wasn’t a rebel after all. They even chatted a little as they worked, not just to her but amongst themselves, talking about their daily lives and the newest gossip and more. Despite how uncomfortable their tense silence had been, the fact that they were talking again didn’t bring her any real relief.

When they finished prepping her, they left and Tatiana and Syrio, who also seemed a little more comfortable around her now, came into the room with her outfit. In contrast to the colourful, innocent-looking dress they put her in last, this time, they dressed her in a sleek, tight, low-cut, elegant white gown with a slit up to her thigh and black accents. They put her in black stilettos to match. They adjusted her outfit until nothing was out of place, then made her walk around the room, swinging her limbs around to prove the outfit fit perfectly.

Almost immediately after, the Peacekeepers came back in, saw that she was ready, grabbed her again, and escorted her away none too gently. She was shoved back into a car and driven to a mansion. It wasn’t as big or extravagant as Snow’s, but still large. Bigger than anything that could be found in District Four, certainly. The guards escorted her all the way into the mansion, but moved no further at the entrance.

“The event is being held in the first room on your left,” one of the Peacekeepers said, indicating a door from which, sure enough, music and chatter could be heard. “It’s being held by Justice Idum. We will tell you when it is time to go.”

Clearly, she was to go alone. It made little difference to her. It wasn’t like she felt safer around these Peacekeepers. She merely nodded, before walking forward, toward the door they had indicated. At the door, she hesitated for a split second. She did not want to go. She did not want to be around any of these Capitol people. She actually longed for her cell. Every day was torture, but at least there were moments where she didn’t have to be around any of these people. Her mind was a dangerous place to be these days, but not nearly so dangerous as this. She wondered if the Peacekeepers would force her inside if she spent too long lingering at the door. The thought was enough to make her take a deep breath and step inside.

The room was large, about as big as a gymnasium. It was fairly dark, lit only by neon lights that shined at different parts of the room. As such, it was sort of hard to make things out very clearly, but there were some details she could see. The room was packed with people, from partiers dancing in the dance floor set aside in the middle of the room, to people paying rapt attention to the live band and other performers staged at different points in the room, to people lounging in comfortable chairs and enjoying all the food and drink that was set aside in tables lined up along walls. There was something beautiful about the room and its decoration for this event, especially in the low light, but it all made fear and anxiety rush through her. She could have been eighteen again, entirely new to and thrown off by this new world known as Capitol life.

She passed by an ornate mirror and caught a glimpse of herself. The gown was beautiful, accentuating her curves and suiting her perfectly. Her makeup was dark and artfully smudged and gave her an oddly mysterious look. Her hair was teased out so that it was even bigger than usual, falling along her shoulders. In a complete contrast to the soft, gentle, innocent look they had gone for for her interview, her stylists and her prep team had instead made her mysterious and seductive and sexy. Probably because tonight was not about proving her innocence and instead was about going right back to being a Capitol toy. She had no idea who this woman was, either. She forced herself to look away from the stranger in her reflection and kept walking.

She drew attention to her quickly, even in the low light of the room, even with how many people were here. A woman in a green feathery outfit approached her, said that her interview was so touching, told her she looked absolutely stunning, informed her she would be so delighted and so _honoured_ if she would dance with her. She knew she didn’t exactly have a choice, so she smiled wide and told her that the honour was all hers. She took the woman’s hand and allowed her to pull her onto the dance floor and into a seemingly endless blur of parties and dinners and events. She stayed at this party until around midnight. After she danced with the woman with green feathers whose name she never even got, countless other people asked her to dance, asked for photos, asked her endless questions and told her all sorts of details about their lives, simply wanted to touch her wherever they liked. She went along with all of it, because she had no other choice. She was the star of this party. They seemed to be so, so happy that she had confirmed that she really had been theirs all this time. She spent the most time with Justice Idum, who seemed to adore her; he insisted that Athena dance with him and eat and drink with him and touched her and even kissed her in different places. Athena thought about Finnick, felt inexplicably like she was betraying him, wondered if he had ever felt like that too. Then she pushed the thought from her mind because it was too painful, smiled, and let it all happen.

After she left that party, she was driven to another one in a spacious condo, which was much brighter and even more lively than the last and didn’t end even as the sun was coming up. After that, she was taken to a studio to do a photoshoot. The process was much slower than she remembered it being; the photographer’s second in command, named Cressida (the name seemed vaguely familiar to Athena, drawing up memories of shaved heads and tattoos of vines), and her assistants had up and left for seemingly no reason, leaving them much less productive than usual. Still, they brought Athena out of her gown and makeup and put her in countless other styles, making her pose for picture after picture for hours. After, she was driven to the Remake Center, where her stylists and her prep team dressed her in a flowing gold dress and gave her gold, glowy makeup and soft curls, before she was taken to a dinner with influential Capitol citizens. Afterwards, she was taken back to the Remake Center, put in a tight black jumpsuit with a matching leather jacket and stilettos, her hair straightened out, before being taken to yet another party for hours.

On and on it went in this fashion, one event being immediately followed by another. The days seemed to meld together. She danced with anyone who asked, talked with everyone who approached her, took pictures with everyone who wanted them, ate and drank almost anything that was offered to her, let them touch her how and where they wanted. Everything became indistinguishable; the days, the clothes she wore, the people she saw, the food and drinks she ate. Food and drinks made her wary now; she was half-expecting that everything she ate would give her that horrible pain that the food her torturers gave her did. She did note that there was no seafood to be found, though, deriving some modicum of satisfaction and pleasure from the realization of her home district's rebellion.

She kept an eye out for Peeta or even Johanna, but they were nowhere to be found. As much as she hated being so alone, she was glad that they seemed to be kept away from all of this. She didn't see Alayne at all, which surprised her, though she wasn't sure why, nor did she know for sure how she felt about it, either. Maybe because Alayne had been her escort for so long that it only seemed right that she would be here now. Maybe because since she had seen so much of Tatiana, Syrio, Ajax, Leto, and Hestia, it seemed odd how little of Alayne she was seeing. Had Snow not asked her to be her escort this time around? Did he not see having an escort as necessary anymore since she had at least two guards escorting her everywhere at all times? Or was it because Alayne was only an escort to tributes and mentors, and Athena, as a prisoner, was no longer either. Or perhaps Alayne had refused to go anywhere near her. Perhaps she knew Athena well enough to see right through her interview; perhaps she knew that Athena supported the rebels with everything she had, that she had known exactly what she was doing and meant every single rebellious action she had done in the arena. It was possible. Athena had no idea, though, and no way of finding out the truth.

After what was perhaps centuries of being dressed up and paraded about at different events, Athena was taken to the Remake Center, but this time it was not to be dressed up, but dressed down. Her prep team removed all her makeup, took off her elegant, beautiful clothes, and helped her back into her dressing gown. Only then, as the guards blindfolded her again, did she know that Snow was, for the moment, satisfied with the seemingly endless public appearances she had just made and that she was going back to her cell.

She had no time to feel any sort of relief. The moment she was back in her cell, she saw that Philo was waiting for her with two other Peacekeepers. They had no need for electric shocks or heat or drugs and chemicals; the Peacekeepers had batons, and they merely strapped her down to her mattress and beat her as Philo questioned her. Each blow somehow managed to be more painful than the last, and still she remained resolutely silent as they rained down upon her and Philo grilled her as incessantly as ever, until the pain became too much and she passed out.

They were gone when she woke up again. She stretched out from her curled up position on the mattress, turning onto her back, stretching out her limbs and staring up at the ceiling. She was alone now. It was the closest thing to any sort of a break she got now. It would be much better if her mind let her be at peace for even a second, but that seemed an impossibility now.

She looked over and saw that a meal had been left for her. Breakfast, by the looks of it. It was morning. She wasn’t hungry, but they would force it down her throat if she didn’t eat, so she made herself eat every morsel on her plate. It took a great deal of effort to keep it down and not just throw it all up again, but she managed it.

As much as she would have liked to forget it or at least act like it had all been one exceedingly long bad dream, she thought about all the events she had been forced to attend. She could feel the ghost of every unwanted touch on her, reliving it against her will, making her shudder horribly. The events were being televised, which she found out when the television flickered to life and she saw a sort of montage that showed viewers all the highlight of Athena Maris’ Capitol escapades. She wondered if that was just for the benefit of the Capitol or if her loved ones and everyone in the districts would be seeing that too. It was all she could do to keep her food down after that thought.

She wondered what Snow would do to her next. It always seemed so hard to picture how much worse things could get, but she knew Snow enough to know that he always had something planned. He seemed to always be two steps ahead, she could never even hope to keep up, just a silly, powerless woman who had strayed too far from the harbour... she ran through a list of all the things that could still be done to her, but she had to force herself to stop before the fear and anxiety became too much. She ran through her list of names to soothe her, but the thought of them was becoming so painful that it took even longer than usual to calm herself down.

A Capitol pet, toy, doll. A woman who had strayed too far from the harbour. A dead girl walking. That was all she was. All she’d ever be. And Calypso, her mother, Annie, Roman, Casper, Noah, Murphy, Lillian, Hudson, Johanna, Peeta, Katniss, Beetee, Finnick... Finnick... she had _no_ idea what would become of any of them. She would never know, either. For some reason, it was hitting her harder than ever, the pain unbearable. She brought her hand to her necklace, playing with the golden ring and bringing the blue spinel pendant to her lips, but even that hurt to look at and touch and think about, and it was with great control that she resisted the temptation to rip the thing off.

She suddenly brought her hands to her face, covering it because she felt herself coming very close to the verge of tears. They were leaving her alone for longer than usual, she doubted anyone would come any time soon, but she knew they had cameras, and she didn’t want them to see her like this, even if they had already seen her on the verge of falling apart from the pain of their torture. It took what little energy was left in her body to keep herself from weeping, and eventually, she gave into exhaustion and let herself be pulled back into unconsciousness. Sleep was easier than tears, after all, and it wasn’t like she was scared of her nightmares anymore. She knew that they could not be worse than anything her conscious mind came up with these days. She knew that they could not be worse than her reality.


	6. VI

**VI**

 

The thing about Finnick being in the hospital was that it gave him a lot of time to think. This was far from a good thing. His mind was a dangerous place to be, far from his friend. Ever since he swam back into consciousness to find himself back in his hospital bed, he spent his waking moments thinking about Athena. When he was asleep, he dreamt about Athena. Even the dreams that started out as something good always devolved into nightmares that jolted him back into consciousness.

He thought about the interview frequently, picked apart every aspect of it, unable to get his mind off of it. In particular, he thought about the way she tried to protect him, Beetee, and Johanna. The way she subtly encouraged Finnick and Beetee and Katniss to lie low and not make themselves too much of an enemy to the Capitol in the event that the rebels lost. He knew she was just trying to look out for them in the only way she could now, and he loved her for it, but he knew it wasn’t an option. They had to fight. He wanted to fight. There was nothing for it but to fight. Athena probably understood this, too.

Still, he wasn’t in a position to fight much of anything. Finnick was discharged the day after he was brought in (he was kept in considerably longer than he probably would’ve been had he not raced out of the hospital without being granted permission), but he relapsed so often that he was always back within hours. He essentially still lived in the hospital. He tied and untied knots with his ropes often, but even that took longer than usual to calm him down. Doctor Silver had meetings with him twice a day now, but they were always cut short because he would try to talk about Athena, would tell him that at least it was good that they knew where she was now, that she didn’t even look hurt, and that from what she was saying during the interview, she seemed to support the Capitol, so perhaps it was best for him to let her go. Finnick had no interest in talking about Athena to Doctor Silver, who clearly didn’t know the first thing about her or understand the sort of treatment she was getting in the Capitol and believed her to be a traitor. He would stay resolutely silent when Doctor Silver brought her up and wouldn’t talk until Doctor Silver either gave up and left or changed the subject.

A short while after he first swam back into consciousness (he was pretty sure it was a short while, at least), Katniss was brought into the hospital, unconscious and back from District Eight. She stayed asleep in her bed for several days, though. Injuries and trauma and exhaustion. That was what the doctors all chalked it up to, anyway. He wanted to know what happened in District Eight, but he didn't ask because he knew they would tell him nothing. He would probably find out the main details sooner or later, anyways, since they filmed the visit for a propo.

Not long after she first woke up and the doctors checked that she was in decent shape, she was put in a wheelchair since the wound in her leg still hadn’t healed and wheeled her down to Command. They wasted no time in District Thirteen. But he supposed they didn’t survive the last seventy-five years by being inefficient.

With nothing else to do, he tied and untied knots with his rope and wrote nearly incoherent poems about a beautiful, lost woman with a pretty, colourful dress and a vacant smile and slept his way into and out of nightmares. Sometimes, it felt like he was floating in and out of consciousness, until it became impossible to tell what was dream and what was reality. Neither provided him any relief, so he supposed it didn’t matter. He supposed it’d make no difference at all if this was how he spent the rest of his life. After seeing Athena, it felt quite like there was no hope at all.

He was jolted into full consciousness by the sound of someone’s voice exclaiming, “I’ll keep the earpiece in!”

He bolted upright, looking all around him. It was Katniss who spoke and consequently woke up many other patients. She was lying in bed while Haymitch sat at her bedside. She was holding a thin white wire in one hand and some sort of metal headgear. He supposed Katniss had removed the earpiece used so that Haymitch and Katniss could communicate, and Haymitch wasn't very happy about it. The thought made him curious, though. Why did Katniss feel the need to remove her earpiece? What happened in District Eight?

“You sure?” said Haymitch. “Because I'm equally happy with any of the three options.”

“I'm sure,” Katniss said shortly, scrunching up the wire protectively in her hand and throwing the odd headgear at Haymitch, who caught it easily, probably having expected her to throw it. “Anything else?”

Haymitch rose to leave. “While I was waiting... I ate your lunch.”

Katniss’ eyes went to the empty stew bowl and tray on her table. “I'm going to report you.”

“You do that, sweetheart,” Haymitch said, probably feeling confident since Katniss didn't seem like the reporting type. He walked out of the hospital, giving Finnick a nod as he left.

Finnick wanted to go over to talk to Katniss, but figured she probably wanted to be alone for the time being. He went over to her bed at dinner instead, bringing his tray with him so that they could watch the new propo together on television.

He quickly saw what had happened in District Eight. The districts had no official hospital; even the one in Four was really just an abandoned building that some healers transformed into a makeshift hospital to help everyone they could. It wasn't a proper hospital like the ones in Thirteen or in the Capitol. District Eight had made a makeshift hospital so that they had somewhere to tend to their wounded. Not long after Katniss and her squad had landed in District Eight did the Capitol bomb the hospital to bits. It was a hospital filled with innocent, unarmed people, many of them children. There were no survivors.

At first, the screen was black. Then a tiny spark flickered in the center. It blossomed, then spread, silently eating up the blackness until the entire frame was ablaze with a fire so real he could almost feel the heat emanating from it. The image of Katniss’ mockingjay pin emerges, glowing red-gold. The deep, resonant voice that narrated the Hunger Games and haunted so many of Finnick’s nightmares sounded, Claudius Templesmith, saying, “Katniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire, burns on.”

“There’s no way we have Claudius Templesmith,” Finnick said with a frown, his brow furrowed.

“Only his voice,” Katniss confirmed. “They didn’t even have to edit it or anything. Apparently, he said that exact line during my first Games.”

At first, there was a montage of short studio clips of Gale, Boggs, and a vaguely familiar woman named Cressida describing the incident in detail. Then, Katniss appeared on screen, standing before the real flames and smoke of District Eight. “I want to tell the rebels that I am alive. That I’m right here in District Eight, where the Capitol has just bombed a hospital full of unarmed men, women, and children. There will be no survivors.” Cut to the hospital collapsing in on itself, the desperation of onlookers as Katniss continued in voice-over. The Katniss beside him, off-camera, buried her face in her pillow, clearly unable to stand watching the bombings another time. “I want to tell people that if you think for one second the Capitol will treat us fairly if there’s a cease-fire, you’re deluding yourself. Because you know who they are and what they do.” Back to Katniss now, her hands lifting up to indicate the destruction around her. “This is what they do! And we must fight back!” Then came a montage of the battle. The initial bombs falling, Katniss and the others running, the hospital being blown to the ground, a close-up of Katniss’ wound - which looked nice and bloody - Katniss scaling the roof, diving into nests, and then some shots of the rebels, Gale, and mainly Katniss knocking the Capital planes out of the sky. Smash-cut to Katniss moving in on the camera. “President Snow says he’s sending a message? Well, I have one for him. You can torture us and bomb us and burn our districts to the ground, but do you see that?” They were with the camera, tracking the planes burning on the roof of the warehouse. Tight on the Capitol seal on a wing, which melted back into the image of Katniss’ face, shouting at the president. “Fire is catching! And if we burn, you burn with us!” Flames engulfed the screen again. Superimposed on them in black, solid letters are the words:

_IF WE BURN_

_YOU BURN WITH US_

The words then caught fire and the whole screen burnt to blackness.

Katniss only looked up once the screen went black again, when she was sure it was over. For a moment, they were both silent. Katniss told him that everyone in Command applauded and cheered and even demanded to see it again when they all watched it together. Finnick didn’t see much worth celebrating. A whole hospital full of innocent, unarmed people had to die for them to get this great, brilliantly-edited propo. It didn’t seem worth the cost. But he had to admit that this was no small thing. An openly anti-Capitol statement. On television. There’s never been anything like it, not since the Dark Days. He tried to imagine what it would be like, watching this at home in District Four, but he couldn’t picture it. He wondered how they were receiving it back home. If they could even see this.

“Don’t like hearing a fight song at a funeral, huh?” Finnick said to her. Katniss just stared at him for a moment, as though surprised he understood it so well, before nodding. “You hear it a lot where I come from. You get used to it. Or you make yourself get used to it, anyways.” And it was true. This sort of thing used to be everywhere in Four. In the academy, in the fireworks the night before a Reaping, in the enthusiastic applause during Reapings or assemblies about the Games. It was everywhere, and it left you no choice but to get adjusted. “But people should know what happened. And now they do. Everyone in the country is seeing this, right?”

“Not in the Capitol,” Katniss replied. “Beetee’s trying to override their system, but he hasn’t managed it yet. But every single district saw it, yes. Even Two, which Plutarch says might be even more important than the Capitol at this point.”

He supposed that made sense. District Two supplied many of the Capitol’s weapons. It was even the place where Peacekeepers were trained, some Peacekeepers even being from Two themselves. If District Two turned against the Capitol, it would be a huge feat for the rebels.

“Let’s turn it off, Finnick, before they run it again,” Katniss urged him. Finnick nodded and moved his hand towards the remote control, but Katniss cried suddenly, “Wait!”

He froze, his eyes snapping back to the television. The Capitol is introducing a special segment and something about it did seem familiar. Yes, there was Caesar Flickerman. There were only two people that his guess could be. Finnick tensed. He didn’t know if he was desperate to see Athena or if he wouldn’t be able to stand seeing her like this again.

Either way, it wasn’t Athena. It was Peeta, whose physical transformation shocked Finnick. The healthy, clear-eyed boy who had been on television only a week ago had lost at least fifteen pounds and developed a nervous tremor in his hands. He was still well-groomed and well-dressed, but even all the makeup could not cover the bags under his eyes, and fine clothes couldn’t conceal the pain he experienced whenever he moved. This was a person badly damaged.

His mind was reeling, trying to make sense of the Peeta at which he was looking. His first interview couldn’t have been more than a week or so ago. How could he have possibly deteriorated so rapidly? What could they have done to him in such a short amount of time? Unless... Finnick replayed all of Peeta’s first interview in his mind, and found, sure enough, that there was nothing that would place it in time, nothing that indicated that it was a live interview. They could have taped that a few days after the Quell and since then done whatever they wanted to do with him.

“Oh, Peeta,” Katniss whispered, probably having come to this conclusion herself.

Peeta and Caesar made a few empty exchanges before Caesar asked him about rumors that Katniss was taping propos for the districts.

“They’re using her, obviously,” Peeta said. “To whip up the rebels. I doubt she even really knows what’s going on in the war. What’s at stake.”

“Is there anything you’d like to tell her?” asked Caesar.

“There is,” Peeta said. He looked directly into the camera, as if he was trying to look straight into Katniss’ eyes. “Don’t be a fool, Katniss. Think for yourself. They’ve turned you into a weapon that could be instrumental in the destruction of humanity. If you’ve got any real influence, use it to put the brakes on this thing. Use it to stop the war before it’s too late. Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you’re working with? Do you really know what’s going on? And if you don’t... find out.”

The screen went black. The seal of Panem flashed on the screen. And with that, the show was over.

Finnick pressed the button on the remote that killed the power. Maybe he was recovering more than he thought he was, the way his doctors said he was, because his mind was moving fast in a way he thought it couldn’t manage anymore. Within moments, people would be here to do damage control on Peeta’s condition and the words that came out of his mouth. They would expect Katniss to reject them. But even though Peeta was only acting as a mouthpiece for Snow, he sort of had a point. Could any of these District Thirteen officials be trusted? Were they being honest? One glance over at Katniss told him she wasn’t so sure herself.

He came to a decision at once. Let them think they hadn’t seen Peeta’s interview. Let them think they only saw the propo. See what they chose to do next.

Finnick gripped Katniss hard by the arms to make sure he had her attention. “We didn’t see it.”

“What?”

“We didn’t see Peeta. Only the propo on Eight. Then we turned the set off because the images upset you. Got it?” he asked. She nodded. “Finish your dinner.”

Katniss pulled herself together just enough that when Plutarch and Fulvia entered, she had a mouthful of bread and cabbage. Finnick did most of the talking, going on about how well everyone came across on camera. They congratulated them on the propo, making it very clear that it was so powerful, they tuned out right afterward. They looked relieved. They believed them.

No one mentioned Peeta.

 

*

 

Finnick was discharged later that night. He had appeared so calm, so stable to his doctors that they figured he was ready to give being on his own another shot. The reason he was calm was because his mind was too busy burning with questions, trying to find answers, to torture himself as per usual. He supposed it didn’t matter. Whatever kept him sane. Neither of his doctors mentioned Peeta’s interview.

As he lied in bed in his quarters, he went over those questions over and over again. Why would no one bring Peeta up to Katniss, at the very least? Perhaps they thought she was still too unstable from the events in District Eight. Did they not think it was worth mentioning, since it was only more Capitol propaganda, more noise? But they must know that Peeta’s imprisonment was tearing Katniss apart, wouldn’t they know to give her as many updates as they possibly could? And what did Peeta mean by his words? They weren’t quite as clear and concise as they had been the first time around, painting a vivid picture of what it was like in the arena or calling for a cease-fire. “Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you’re working with? Do you really know what’s going on? And if you don’t... find out.” Something about it seemed like more than lines fed to him by Snow. Find out what? And from who? And how could Peeta possibly know anything but what the Capitol told him? He and Katniss hadn’t even been aware of the mission, though Snow didn’t seem to believe it. Peeta probably had to guess rebel tactics or make things up to tell his torturers; lies that would get him punished severely when they were discovered...

Perhaps this interview was for no other reason than to torture Katniss, punish her for her actions in District Eight. It made the most sense, and it was exactly the sort of thing Snow would do. Because at the heart of all Finnick’s questions was concern. What have they done to Peeta? What are they doing to him right now? What are they doing to Johanna? What are they doing to Athena? He had seen her only a few days ago on television, but who knew what they could’ve done since that interview that must’ve also been pre-recorded? Who knew what they did to her beforehand? Who knew what they would do to her next?

He thought about his conversation with Katniss after Plutarch and Fulvia had left them alone again. The two of them had discussed the state Athena and Peeta were in. How much their health was deteriorating. The constant danger they were both in, mounting each day. When it finally became too much to bear even discussing, they fell silent for a long time. Finnick tried knotting and unknotting his rope, but he couldn’t manage to do even that for very long. In the end, he just balled up the rope and clutched it tightly in his fist.

“I’m going to kill them all,” he had said finally. “Every last one of them that did this. I’m going to kill them all.” He paused, looked up at Katniss. She was staring down at him, with an expression that was a little hard to read. She didn’t look surprised or even upset, though. “Unless that’s your job now.”

The ghost of a smile appeared on her face. “I barely even know what my job is.”

“Well,” Finnick said slowly, and gave another attempt at tying and untying knots with his rope, “if you ever find out, let me know. The last thing I want to do is infringe on Mockingjay duties.”

But even that was useless. He could kill every last person in the Capitol responsible for Athena’s imprisonment and torture, and that still would not save her. She still would be doomed. Finnick could feel tears springing in his eyes again, not for the first time since seeing Athena’s interview, and made himself tie, then untie the most complicated knot he could think of until the thought was banished from his mind. He kept tying and untying knots until he realized that dawn was upon him and made himself rise.

Most of his day was relatively uneventful. Dalton saw him eating alone at breakfast and joined him. They didn’t talk much, but Finnick didn’t mind the company. He followed his schedule as best as he could, for the most part. He kept an ear out for any mention at all of Peeta, but none came. His name never even came up. Near the middle of the day, Katniss managed to get permission to take Finnick into the woods with her since Gale was scheduled to work on weapons with Beetee. The two of them wandered around for a while, before ditching their communicators under a bush. Once they were a safe distance away, they sat and discussed Peeta’s broadcast.

“I haven’t heard one word about it. No one’s told you anything?” Katniss shook her head. He paused, before asking, “Not even Gale?” Katniss didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to, either. “Maybe he’s trying to find a time to tell you privately.”

“Maybe,” she said, but he knew that they were both doubtful.

They were silent for so long that a buck wandered into range. It was clear that the animals here weren’t accustomed to being hunted; the buck didn’t even seem afraid of them. It hadn’t been given a reason to be afraid. Katniss took it down with an arrow so easily it almost seemed unfair. Finnick hauled it back to the fence.

There was minced venison in the stew that day. Finnick was deciding that he liked Dalton, and he hadn’t been given any reason to change his mind. They had more in common than he was expecting, since District Four and Ten surprisingly shared a lot of traditions. He hadn't known much about District Ten’s traditions. He only knew what he learned in school and what he learned while touring the district on various Victory Tours, which wasn’t much. Talking about home was still painful, but it wasn’t so bad when it was with someone who sort of understood. Dalton was particularly curious about the ocean, so Finnick described it to him with as much detail as he could while Dalton listened on, paying rapt attention.

Almost as soon as he was done eating, he was approached by someone who he recognized after a second as Commander Boggs.

“Disregard the rest of your schedule,” Boggs told him. “You’re wanted in Command.”

He was wanted in Command. Why would he be wanted in Command? Had he done something? Or was it about Peeta’s interview? Why would they call for him and not Katniss, though? Unless she was being brought down, too? Figuring there was only one way to find out, Finnick nodded, bid Dalton goodbye, and followed him to Command, his mind burning with questions all the while.

When they arrived at Command, he saw quickly that, while it seemed everyone who was needed had already arrived, Katniss was nowhere to be found. So they only wanted to see him, for some reason. President Coin and her people were there, along with Plutarch and Fulvia, a young woman whose head was shaved and tattooed with vivid green vines who he recognized from the propos and somewhere else he couldn’t quite name, and people who seemed to be from her crew that he didn’t recognize at all. They had saved seats for him and Boggs. They sat down quickly, while Finnick thought about how uncomfortably quiet the room was. He wondered how long they’d been waiting.

“Soldier Odair,” Coin said, “we’re glad to have you here and to hear that you're recovering.”

Finnick just nodded. Plutarch picked up where Coin left off.

“As you know, Finnick, we've been filming as many propos we can. The more we make, the more we can put out there, and the more people we can get on our side. And Fulvia here has come up with a truly ingenious idea.”

Fulvia flushed, both at the praise she was receiving from her boss and the attention she was receiving from Finnick. “Oh, it's really not that clever -”

“Nonsense, don't be modest,” Cressida said. “It's an amazing idea, ask anyone. You'll love it, Finnick,” she added, as though she knew Finnick well enough to know such a thing.

“I - well, I was thinking we could do a series of propos called ‘We Remember,’” Fulvia said. “In each one, we would feature one of the dead tributes. Little Rue from Eleven, for example. The idea being that we could target each district with a very personal piece.”

“A tribute to your tributes, as it were,” said Plutarch.

“That's a great idea, Fulvia,” Finnick said, slightly surprised by how much he meant it, since her studio propo with Katniss had been such a flop. “It honours the people we've lost and reminds everyone why we're fighting. It's brilliant.”

Fulvia went red again. “I figured it could work, if there's an interest. The reason we called you here is because we wanted to narrate the spots. Out of everyone here, you're the most likely to know most of the people that'll be highlighted the best, and you have such a way with words and everything... we figured you'd be a good fit. If you're interested.”

“It obviously came to our attention before we left for Eight that you now want to aid the cause,” Plutarch said, “and believe me, we're all thrilled to have you on board. These We Remember propos are a good way to start you off without throwing you into battle too soon or something of the like. From there, we can figure out what's next. But this is a great place to start, if you're willing.”

Finnick thought about it. He did really think these propos were a good idea. He wanted to be apart of it, and if this was a step in the right direction in terms of being allowed to contribute more to the war effort, then it would be more than worth it. But there was one thing he wanted to make sure of first.

“I'm willing,” he said, then added, before they could get too excited, “under one condition.”

They exchanged uncomfortable glances at that, clearly chafing a little at the fact that Finnick was making demands of his own. He had been far from someone who was easy to work with this entire time, and they had clearly been hoping that maybe that would change as his doctors reported more of a recovery in him.

“Name it,” Plutarch said.

“When we get to District Four,” he said, “I want to talk about Mags. Mags Flanagan. I know she didn't die in the Games, technically, but... her death... the way Snow killed her... they're trying to sweep that under the rug. They’ve been lying about how she died. About what they did to her. And I don't want to let them.”

“Well, that sounds perfectly reasonable to me,” Plutarch said. Nobody protested it, so it was decided. “Excellent! Would you be willing to do it today?”

He got a distinct feeling they would insist on today even if he wasn't willing, but he didn't mind either way. He didn't see any other better time to do it. “Not at all.”

Coin dismissed them, and Finnick followed Plutarch, Fulvia, Cressida and her crew down to the studio where they had attempted to film Katniss’ studio propo. Fulvia called down Katniss’ prep team - Octavia, Flavius, and Venia - to put makeup on him. They didn’t put much on him, just enough to even out his skin and cover the dark circles under his eyes.

After, Plutarch said, “I think some introductions are in order. Finnick, this is Cressida, one of the Capitol’s most brilliant up-and-coming directors.”

“Until I up and left,” Cressida said with a smirk.

“I know you,” Finnick blurted out, finally able to remember where he had seen her before. “You were there at some of those photoshoots I had to go to. You were the assistant to the photographer.”

“Well, everyone has to start somewhere,” she said, before her face became a little more serious. “I’m not proud of those days. But it’s behind me. I’ve found something bigger and better here. Something that’ll make my work worthwhile. Here. With the revolution. We came all this way for it.”

Finnick merely nodded. It must not have been a small thing, coming all the way from the Capitol. They even risked their lives in Eight to get the footage they needed. They must be serious about this.

“This is my assistant, Messalla,” Cressida continued, nodding at a slim young man with several sets of earrings and his tongue pierced with a stud with a silver ball about the size of a marble. “And these are my cameramen,” she nodded at two burly men with the same sandy hair, red beards, and blue eyes. Brothers, probably. “Castor and Pollux.”

Castor, the one with close-bitten nails (one of the only differences between the two he could find), smiled and said hello. Pollux said nothing, merely nodding at him. Finnick’s first thought was that he was shy or a man of few words, but then he noticed the position of his lips, the extra effort he took to swallow, and knew at once, even before Castor could tell him, that Pollux was an Avox. The Capitol cut out his tongue so that he could never speak again. Finnick didn’t need to ask what made him want to risk everything to help bring down the Capitol.

Fulvia was eager to get to work, so she hastened to get everyone in their positions. Despite the fact Cressida was supposed to be such a brilliant film director, she took a backseat to Fulvia that day. Cressida really only organized her film crew based on Fulvia’s vision and directions. Perhaps Fulvia had been a little bitter that Cressida’s propo with Katniss had been such a success, while her studio version had failed so dismally, and this was Cressida’s way of smoothing things over in the creative department while still being allowed to do her own on-air depictions of the Mockingjay.

Finnick was sat down in a stool behind a plain black backdrop. Most of what he said would be voice-over and he therefore wouldn’t be shown very much, but they still filmed him rather than just recording his voice in case they wanted to cut to his face a few times. Cressida and her crew positioned themselves to film him, while Plutarch and Fulvia stood in the control room.

“Do you want to do District Four first or last, Finnick?”

At first, he was too surprised by the fact that he was given a choice to speak, but he finally managed out, “Last.” He wasn’t ready to talk about Mags or anyone back home yet. He could only hope that once he got through the rest of the Districts, he would be.

“Okay. We’ll start with Five and work our way through from there, okay?”

He nodded. First, as instructed by Cressida, he introduced himself, reporting that he was alive and well in Thirteen. He was to then talk about one male and one female tribute from each district. Depending on how successful this was, they would film more later.

From District Five, he talked about Wyatt Edison, the handsome, charismatic, energetic young man who fell into the clutches of alcoholism as time went on and the pain only got worse, and Vida Foster, whose games left her mentally and physically weakened, but still managed to retain her kindness. From District Six, he talked about Apollo Byke and Casey Turbo, people who turned to morphling to get them through each day when the pain was too much, but still appreciated the beauty in life and were brave and selfless until the end. From District Seven, he talked about Blight, an anxious man with a nervous, twitchy quality about him that still found the courage to stand for what he believed in, and Amber Cedara, a scared young girl who kept a tough exterior and her dignity until the end. From District Eight, he talked about Woof, a man who lived a long, full life, faced unspeakable horrors for a second time with grace, and died a loyal friend and ally until the end, as well as Cecilia, with her three children she adored so much and the bravery with which she faced being split apart from them. From District Nine, he talked about Harvey Barric, with his easy charm and the way he closed himself from experiencing even more pain, and Arya Barley, with her kind-hearted spirit and the way she made everyone in the room laugh so they could feel more at ease than she did. From District Ten, he talked about Buck Sable and Merona Knox; their patience and their strength and their tenderness that they had managed to keep despite everything. From District Eleven, he talked about Chaff, with his warm and welcoming personality, his easy humor, and his laughter that always made you feel like you were in on some grand joke, and Rue, with her sharp mind and her kind, gentle demeanour and the way she seemed to fly from one place to the next, a bird whose wings were clipped too soon. From District One, he talked about Gloss and Cashmere, twins who fought like hell to stay together, every step of the way. From District Two, he talked about Brutus and Alana Roland from his Games, warriors taught to fight to the death, fed lies by the Capitol that were their downfall in the end. From District Three, he talked about Gadge Cordin, from his Games; clever and quick-witted and soft in a way the Hunger Games never allowed to survive; and Wiress Huxley, perceptive and always three steps ahead of everyone else but never quite able to communicate with others, a canary whose song was cut short.

It seemed to be working. Nobody in the room was stopping him, anyway, and seemed to be giving him their full attention. Maybe it was because this time, they weren't forcing him to say any corny lines. In fact, there was no script at all. He had complete control over what he said. The only exception was when Fulvia, Cressida, or Plutarch would ask him a question to lead him a certain way, but besides that, the direction he went in with each tribute was entirely up to him.

When he got to District Four, he took a deep breath, before talking about Kai Emerson. It only seemed right. His death lingered for him for a long time; he might have done all that he could for him, but it never felt like enough when that tribute died. Not to mention, Finnick had chosen Athena, and Kai had always known it. That fact, and the effect it had on Kai, was something that was hard to forget.

“Kai Emerson,” he said, “was sixteen when he was Reaped, and he was sixteen when he died. He was a strong fighter, he was great with a bow and with knives, and he was good at hand to hand combat. He was also funny. He was also determined. He was also perceptive. He was sixteen years-old, and everything he was taught was a lie. About this country. About his life, what he was good for, what he was worth. Kai was taught to be a soldier. That was what he was told he should be; a soldier who fought other children to bring honour and pride to his district and his country. So he spent all his life working to become just that, and when his time came and his name was Reaped, he found that nothing was the way he’d expected it. The Capitol wasn’t this place of glory and justice. The Games were crueller and more unforgiving than we were ever taught in school. And years of training almost... stopped mattering. That’s what the Games do. They bring out the worst in people. But even though Kai never left the arena, he did something that so many of us, tributes or victors or otherwise, never get to. He saw that his life had never been his, that the Capitol, even from when he was born, claimed it as their own, and so he made his death his own. His death, his way, in his time. That takes bravery, but more than that; it takes knowing who you are, or at least who you want to be, and not letting anyone take that away; it takes holding onto that with everything you have.

“And in claiming his death, he managed to reclaim his life. One small gesture. One action. That's all it took to reclaim his life. And maybe we can all do that. Reclaim our present, our future, our homes, everything. It’s ours. It always has been. And when we remember Kai Emerson, we can also remember that all we need to do is take it. All we need to do is claim it.”

Finnick fell silent. He looked down at his hands. He wished he had his rope, though he understood why that might not come across well on camera. Saying any of that didn’t bring him any relief. On the contrary, he just felt drained. But he still had to talk about Mags.

“That was great, Finnick,” Cressida. “That was amazing. Just one more now...”

He was still looking down at his hands, but he made himself nod. He took a deep breath, bracing himself, before lifting his head and beginning to talk. Just like how they had when he spoke of Kai, no one asked him any questions or tried to lead him a certain way with his words. They just let him talk.

“On the day the third Quarter Quell started,” he began, “before all the tributes were being lifted into the arena, Mags Flanagan was in the Launch Room in order to say goodbye to her two tributes. And just as we were all about to be lifted up, four Peacekeepers came in, grabbed Mags, beat her over and over again until her bones broke and she was bleeding all over, before forcing her onto her knees, putting a gun to the back of her head, and pulling the trigger.

“I didn’t see this personally. Athena Maris did, because she was in the room when it happened. She couldn’t do anything, she was already trapped in the glass cylinder. She had to watch it happen and then she told me. From what I have seen, President Snow doesn’t want you to know this. He insists that that’s a lie. He wants you to believe, instead, that Mags died from a stroke when she returned to the Training Center. A freak accident. Unexpected. Unpreventable. By the time help came, it was too late. That’s what President Snow and the Capitol want you to believe. But I know better. And I think you all do, too, because you know what they do. What they do every single time, even to people like Mags.

“People like Mags, who raised me. Not only that, but she won the Eleventh Hunger Games and spent the next fifty-seven years of her life as a mentor. Spent the next fifty-seven years training and lifting up and helping tributes from District Four, from the ones who were smart enough to be terrified or the ones who were foolish enough to be confident. She dedicated herself to those tributes, almost entirely alone. That was who Mags was. That was what she did. She had something for everyone. Friendship to extend, a story to tell, advice to give. No one ever felt unwelcome or unaccepted. That was who Mags was. That was what she did. And she believed so fiercely that we could be somewhere better than this. She believed so fiercely in a better future, in a future where the pain seems small, where it even seemed worth it, in a future more forgiving. She was willing to fight for it. She was willing to risk her life for it. She didn’t let fear or anything stop her. That was who Mags was. That was what she did.

“I’ve known Mags more than half my life, and I know that she would want us to see this war through. She would want us to fight for what’s right. She would want us to not give up, to not let fear or pain or anything else stop us. It was how she lived, and I think we should follow in her footsteps. The world would be a better place. But we should also make sure that we don’t forget. When they’re trying to feed you more lies, when you’re fighting for what’s right, when you get a chance to help someone. Make sure you remember Mags. I know I will.”

Finnick went silent again, this time for good. He was finished. He went through two tributes in every single district. There was nothing for him to say anymore, and he was glad for it. How drained he felt after talking about Kai was nothing compared to how he felt now. Talking about Mags felt like opening up old wounds, but he was glad he did it. He needed to do it.

“Cut,” Finnick said finally, when silence stretched on in the studio.

For a moment, there was just more silence. Then came applause out of nowhere, so loud and so sudden that Finnick was jolted back to alertness. It was Plutarch, clapping loudly for him now that he was finished. Plutarch was soon joined by Fulvia, followed by Cressida, Massalla, Castor, and Pollux.

“Perfect!” Plutarch said. “That was perfect! Straight from the heart. You did beautifully, Finnick. This was a brilliant idea, Fulvia!”

Fulvia flushed again, and said, “Yes, you did amazing, Finnick. I’ll set to work on getting these edited as soon as possible. We might be able to get them done tonight.”

“Yes, aim for tonight,” Plutarch said firmly, nodding. “That way, we can broadcast each individual district with tributes of their dead. Coin’s going to be thrilled by this.”

They were going to go on a visit to District Twelve the next day to get some footage of Katniss and Gale in their old, now destroyed home, so Cressida and her crew left to prepare for that. Plutarch left to report to Coin and prepare for the visit himself, telling Finnick that he had the rest of the day off. Fulvia insisted she ought to get to work on these propos as soon as possible and hurried away. Drained and with nothing else to do, Finnick trekked back to his quarters and collapsed onto his bed. Though he had little to no energy left, it still took many hours and tied knots before his body finally gave into exhaustion and slept, thoughts of Mags and Kai and the various other ghosts in his life still drifting about in his mind.


	7. VII

**VII**

 

The only possible positive about Peeta’s newest interview was that it meant they were no longer airing footage of her. It was poor compensation, considering how much his health seemed to have deteriorated since his first interview, in such a poor state that even all the makeup the Capitol had to offer couldn’t cover it up. His appearance now matched the screams she heard so often from next door. His and Johanna’s screams were so loud that they sounded like they were occurring from inside her cell, impossible to drown out. She thought about how badly injured Peeta looked in his interview, thought about the state Johanna had been in the last time she saw her at Snow’s mansion, agonized over what state they might be in now. Even if she did every single thing Snow asked her to do, there was no way of ever confirming their safety (or anyone’s safety, for that matter).

Why hadn’t she done more? In that arena, before everything fell apart, why hadn’t she done more to protect them? She should’ve never let Peeta out of her sight. She should’ve tackled him or knocked him out, took out his tracker, and dragged him back to the lightning tree. She should’ve made sure Johanna’s tracker was out. She should’ve fought tooth and nail to make sure the were safe. But now they were all doomed.

And what of her mother and Calypso back in Four, thrown into District Four’s uprisings? She was supposed to look after them, and instead she was here. She had no idea what had even become of them. Snow, as expected, allowed her no information about them. And what about Annie or Roman or Casper or Noah or Murphy or Lillian or Hudson? Thoughts of Finnick in Thirteen, endless unanswered questions about the state he was in, drove her mad as well, as well as thoughts of Katniss and Beetee. How were they holding up? Were they okay? Were they safe? Were they even alive?

It occurred to her that they could all be dead. That in the impossible chance that she was ever liberated from her imprisonment, she would find all she cared about dead and gone. They could all be dead or dying or close to it, and Athena had no way of stopping it, no way of even knowing about it, no way of saying goodbye.

She felt tears stinging her eyes and covered her face with her hands again. It was a little difficult to keep them there without hitting herself in the face, since her body was still twitching and convulsing from the horrible electrical shocks she’d received from her last torture session, but she managed it. She took a deep, shuddering breath, and made herself go through her list of names again, but somewhere between Calypso’s name and Finnick’s, she devolved into horrible sobs that wracked her whole body, both from the lingering physical pain and the other kind of pain buried much deeper. She tried to muffle the noises she made, but even so, she couldn't manage to be completely quiet.

She didn't know how long she cried for, but when she finally stopped, she felt like there was nothing left inside her. No tears, nothing. She felt nothing. She wiped the tears from her face, moved away her hands, and stared blankly up at the ceiling, feeling oddly numb.

“If it makes you feel any better,” came a familiar voice out of nowhere, “you looked great.”

Athena bolted upright, her eyes landing on the wall on the opposite end of the room, as though she might be able to see her through it.

“Johanna?”

“Expecting someone else, Maris?”

Athena was moving immediately. She didn't have the strength for walking yet, so she crawled across the room, scrambling to the wall that separated them. The relief she felt was something close to a tidal wave. She had tried several other times to communicate with Johanna and Peeta to no success. This was the first time she was hearing Johanna's voice doing something other than screaming in pain since the Games.

“Johanna,” Athena said again, sitting down and leaning against the wall, letting out a sigh of relief. “Fuck, it's good to hear you.”

“You've been hearing me for a long time.”

“You know what I mean,” Athena said. Johanna said nothing, probably because she did in fact know what Athena meant. She hesitated, before adding, “What are they doing to you?”

“Nothing good,” Johanna said shortly. “Usually, soak me in water and use electric shocks.” Athena’s heart dropped. They used electric shocks on her too, but at least she wasn’t soaking wet when they did it. “Starve me out. Beat me. What about you?”

“They use electric shocks on me too,” Athena said. “They don’t do it when I’m wet, though. They feed me regularly, but they... sometimes they give me things that I react to. Badly. It makes everything hurt. Feels like I’m dying. Sometimes they burn me. Sometimes they just beat me. They rotate between different options.”

Johanna was quiet for a time, as though considering this. “Of course, they’ll be more strategic about how they hurt you. Wanna make sure they can still pretty you up for the cameras. Which, like I said, you were. That dress for your interview with all those colours? _Gorgeous_. Oh, and the gold dress you wore to that one dinner? I’d kill for a chance to wear that.”

“They all blended together,” Athena told her blandly. “You could be talking about any dress at any dinner.”

“Still,” said Johanna, “you’ve got appreciate your stylists’ handiwork. It didn't even look like anyone had touched you. Way better than the idiots who dressed District Seven. See, if they were going to pretty me up, they’d need a lot of wigs and makeup and clothes that hide the fact that I’ve lost weight before I even look presentable. No one’s putting me on camera any time soon.”

There were shades of irony in her tone, trying to act like she wasn’t upset, but Athena knew better. Her heart ached.

“Johanna,” said Athena, “Johanna, I'm so - ”

“Athena,” Johanna said slowly, “I swear if you apologize, I'll break this wall down just so I can kick your ass.”

“That wouldn't be the worst thing,” Athena said. “The thing about breaking the wall down, I mean. I could do without the ass-kicking.”

“Life’s been kicking both our asses enough,” Johanna agreed. “We’re stuck here and those assholes in Thirteen are having all the fun without us.”

“You call what happened in Eight fun?”

The television sometimes showed the destruction that occurred in District Eight. Really, Athena had to admire the people who created and edited these clips; somehow, they managed to make the bombing of a makeshift hospital full of unarmed people that was orchestrated by the Capitol, from which there would be no survivors, look like it was Katniss Everdeen’s fault. There were even some clips of Katniss and her squad running away, as though to depict them as cowards for running away from the bombings. They framed the bombings as something that needed to happen to show that justice was swift and harsh to all who aided and supported the Mockingjay. The term justice even being used to describe the bombings of unarmed injured and sick people made her blood boil.

“At least they can do something,” Johanna said. “They can fight. We're on our knees here.”

“I know,” she said. “Doing that interview made me sick. Going to those events made me sick. And there's only going to be more.”

“More,” Johanna repeated. “Jesus. I don't even know how long we've been here. I just know we're going to die here.”

“A month, I think,” Athena said. “A little over a month.”

And how longer did they have left? They were running on such limited time...

Suddenly, Johanna started laughing. They started as quiet giggles, until they erupted into much louder laughs. She laughed and laughed and laughed, uncontrollable yet lacking in mirth. Athena would have been glad to hear her laugh if she didn't know that none of it was derived from any kind of joy or humor. Finally, her laughter died down into nothingness, and there was only silent for a few more long, suspended moments.

“From victors to this. How did we get here, huh?” Johanna said hollowly.

Before either of them could say anything else, the door to Athena's cell opened and in marched two Peacekeepers. Athena tensed at once. She felt quite like she was being caught red-handed doing something she wasn't supposed to be doing. Certainly she wasn't allowed to talk to Johanna or Peeta. Athena being moved to a cell between them was solely so that she could be tortured by the sounds of them being tortured. No benefits for her allowed. But Snow must have foreseen this happening; did he merely not care, or was he allowing them to talk so that they could be punished for it later? Or did he think that if they talked, they might let their guards down and reveal the information he sought? Were there Peacekeepers in Johanna's cell, too? She didn't dare speak to ask the question.

As it turned out, they weren't here because she and Johanna were talking. They approached her and lifted her roughly to her feet, and when Athena asked what was going on, one of the Peacekeepers said simply, “The president has another task for you.”

Another task. That likely meant another interview or more public appearances. But it might mean something far worse; it had been lingering in her mind that Snow might start selling her body. The threat had been there ever since she was eighteen, and if there was ever a time to follow through with it, it would certainly be now, where she had little choice other than complying. She supposed she would find out when the time came.

The Peacekeepers blindfolded her and began marching her roughly out of her cell.

“Remember to smile, mermaid girl,” Johanna called out to her, the last thing she heard before she was shoved out of her cell. Solid advice for where she was going.

When the Peacekeepers removed her blindfold, she found herself not in Snow's mansion, but in the Remake Center. As per usual, her prep team was waiting for her and set to work on her as soon as the Peacekeepers positioned themselves outside the door. They were almost fully comfortable with her again, chattering about in a manner that was close to how it used to be. The tense, stiff silence had unnerved her and she didn't miss it, but something about this also bothered her. After a while, she realized it was because she was wondering if they knew she was a prisoner or not. If they knew she spent her nights and days in a cell, if they knew she was being tortured brutally. They must have; as oblivious as they were at times, this seemed too big of a thing to not have realized. At the very least, they must have pieced together why she was escorted everywhere by Peacekeepers.

Maybe they did know and they thought it was a good thing. Maybe they thought it was what she deserved after her actions in the arena. Maybe it was the only reason why they were comfortable around her again. She thought about how her prep team had always seemed to have her best interests at heart, in whatever misguided way they could. She then forced all thoughts of this from her mind, before she did something stupid and ridiculous like lash out or cry over people she’d never even thought she cared that much about, people she’d always known didn’t really know her and didn’t really want what was truly best for her.

After her prep team finished with her, they left her alone for her stylists to come in and dress her. When they were finished, the guards came in, blindfolded her yet again, and escorted her away, followed hastily by Tatiana and Syrio. When they reached what she presumed was Snow's mansion, Tatiana and Syrio's footsteps drifted off, as though they were heading in another direction. Athena, forced along by her two guards, moved forward.

When they came to a stop and her blindfold was removed, Athena looked around and saw that she was in Snow's office. That was about all she had time to deduce before an unfamiliar, high-pitched voice was crying, “It's her!” and something was grabbing her around her lower half with such force that she was nearly knocked right over onto the ground, only barely managing to steady herself. For a fraction of a second, Athena thought it was another attack, another method of torture - until she looked down and saw the short, thin young girl with flowing blonde hair hugging her around the waist.

Athena was extremely confused, but slowly began to hug the girl back. The girl was so short, especially since Athena was wearing high heels, that she could see over her head easily. She scanned the room quickly. The two Peacekeepers had stepped back, flanking the double doors. Her eyes soon found the only other person in the room. President Snow.

He was looking at her with an expectant look on his face, like there was a task in that moment that she needed to do, and failure was not an option. Athena saw the way he looked at the girl hugging her and suddenly didn't need to ask who she was or what she was doing here. This was President Snow's granddaughter, Chastity Snow.

Now that she actually knew who this girl was and realized that Snow would be expecting her to give his granddaughter the royal treatment, Athena hugged her back in a more warm and welcoming manner, kneeling down so that the embrace was a little less awkward (she was privately glad that Tatiana and Syrio weren't there to make any comments about how she was messing up her dress). They must have hugged for at least five minutes straight, Athena hugging Chastity just as tight as she was hugging her. When they pulled away, Athena didn't have time to say anything - not a “hello” or a “nice to meet you” or anything in between - before Chastity Snow was talking a mile a minute.

“It's you! It's really you! Oh, I love you so much - you're my favourite, you and Finnick have always been my favourites, ever since I watched your first Games - I even did a project on District Four a few years ago for school, but I mainly just talked about you two - I just _love_ you - you're just so great, everything about you - the way you fight and your friendship with Finnick and all the other victors and the way you talk about your family - oh, you're even wearing the necklace right now! - and how you're so funny and nice and cool in all your interviews - and you always look so beautiful - even now, you look even prettier in person! And - and - ”

But Chastity came to a stop at that, partially to catch her breath and partially out of embarrassment, having realized how much she had just rambled in such a short period of time. Now that she wasn't focusing on the words tumbling out of her mouth, Athena took the young girl in more closely. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Maybe Athena had seen her once or twice. On television or in a photograph. Never in person. The amount of public appearances she made were surprisingly limited. Snow was quite protective of her, from what she could tell.

Chastity Snow looked nothing like her grandfather. There was something distictly snake-like about Corialanus Snow's eyes, but Chastity’s eyes were warm and brown and currently quite bright. Her lips were thin, not unnaturally puffed-up like Snow's. Her long blonde hair was combed to perfect neatness, and her face had the smoothness of youth to it. Nothing like the monster who shared her blood. Just a girl. She might have been a kid Athena saw running around District Four. Except different. Distinctly different. Maybe it was the clothes, much finer than anything even the richest in Four could afford. More likely it was the way she carried herself. She had better posture than most children and even adults in Four. There was a certain dignity and poise to Chastity that one didn't see often in twelve year-olds back home. But it only made sense, really. Why wouldn't she be that way? A girl of the Capitol, granddaughter of the president... but she was still only a child, to be sure. Just a girl.

Athena's smile just then was wide and warm and something close to genuine. “Well, I've got nothing on you.”

Chastity flushed, going red all over at the compliment, but she was smiling from ear to ear.

“Darling Chastity here has been a long-time fan of yours,” said Snow, walking up to place a hand on Chastity’s shoulder. “I daresay she's your biggest fan. She's wanted to meet you personally for quite some time now, but it never worked out - there was always this conflict or that. I figured now would be the perfect time, since you would already be here to prepare for your live interview later on.”

“My live interview,” Athena repeated. “Right. Of course. Well, it's an honour to meet you! President Snow always speaks so highly of you - every chance he gets!”

Chastity beamed up at her grandfather, before turning back to Athena and saying enthusiastically, “You're going to do great in your interview, I know it! You always know what to say.”

“I'm a lot less nervous now that you've said that,” Athena said. “Now I know it'll all be okay during the interview.”

You still get nervous?” Chastity asked, stunned.

“Of course,” Athena replied. “That's something that never really goes away. Just ask your grandfather; I'm sure even he gets a little nervous before a speech every now and then.”

“Of course I do,” said Snow. “Words matter, darling. It's always important to occupy yourself with saying just the right things.”

Even though he was talking to Chastity, his eyes landed on Athena at the last part, his gaze pointed. His message was clear; this interview would be live, meaning there would be no chance to edit or cut out anything she said. If she stepped out of line, the consequences would be severe.

Right,” she said with a smile. “The important thing is making sure your nerves don't get in the way of saying the things that matter. It might take a while, but you get there in the end.”

This felt awfully like lying. Athena was lying to this girl, pretending her grandfather was not a monster who destroyed entire districts and murdered countless people and ruined lives. President Snow had probably been lying to her her whole life. She wouldn't be surprised if Chastity didn't know that she was a prisoner here.

“Now, I think that's quite enough for today,” said Snow, and when Chastity opened her mouth to protest, added, “Both Miss Maris and I are very busy, darling. The broadcast starts in a mere hour. We'll arrange to meet again some other time - won't we, Athena?”

“Of course,” Athena said at once with a smile. She reached out to grab Chastity's arms, giving them a light squeeze. “Any time you want, okay?”

Chastity nodded, and flung her arms around her in another hug. With an inexplicable heaviness, Athena hugged her back tightly. When they pulled away, two more Peacekeepers were called in to escort Chastity away. She looked back and waved at Athena, who made herself smile as wide as she could as she waved back. The smile faded from her face when Chastity was gone, though.

She got back to her feet, her eyes landing on Snow, who was already watching her. Instinctively, she tensed up, but she supposed that if she had messed up, she would know by now.

In the end, all Snow said was, “Come along, Miss Maris.”

Athena followed President Snow out of his office. They were followed closely by the two Peacekeepers, both of whom had their hands on their guns. They walked in silence for a long time, their footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway.

“Your granddaughter seems like a nice girl,” Athena said.

 _I hope she never grows up to be like you,_ she thought.

“She's the jewel of the Capitol,” Snow said. “She will be glad to hear you think so highly of her. And for the chance to watch you again.”

“Right,” Athena said. “I suppose I'm sticking to the usual script? Condemn the rebellion, convince the people that the best option is to lay down their arms?”

“You've grasped all but one thing,” said Snow. They came to a sudden halt. Snow was standing so close to her that it was all she could do to stand her ground and not shrink back. “Don't just convince the people. Make sure you convince me. You wouldn't want me to feel like you're lying to us all, would you?”

“Right,” Athena said, as steadily as she could, terrified and furious that he still frightened her so much. “Of course.”

He smiled. “Good.”

The Peacekeepers opened a door to their left. It was the same room she was taken to when she woke up after the Quarter Quell. The room with the painting. It had been transformed yet again; at the wall opposite them, there was a large podium. On either side of the podium were two elevated chairs. Behind one set of chairs was a projected map of Panem. The painting was still there, though, a man and a woman clutching onto each other as a deadly storm was about to overtake them, unable to stay afloat on such an unsturdy boat. Her eyes found it almost immediately, but she made herself look away when she felt the scratchy feeling in her throat that always preceded tears. Snow was looking at her, watching her watch the painting, but by the time she faced him again, she managed to rearrange her features into one of indifference. Not giving Snow the reaction he wanted, not showing him how much the sight of the painting upset her. Something Snow couldn't have. One small victory that she could claim over him.

They weren't alone. There were camera crews preparing for the broadcast, Tatiana and Syrio in one corner, and two other Capitol politicians in the room, talking amongst themselves. Snow walked over to them, and they bowed as he approached them and joined their conversation. Athena wanted desperately to be able to hear that conversation, to be able find out any information she could get. Before she could figure out a strategy to eavesdrop, Tatiana and Syrio were swooping in on her, guiding her off to the side so that they could adjust her outfit, hair, and makeup one last time so that everything was perfect.

There was a mirror there that allowed her to actually see herself. She was wearing a silvery dress that hugged her body’s curves loosely, shimmering and glowing like rays of moonlight. The thorough, full-body polish that her prep team did on her, the silver jewels adorned on her skin, and the silvery makeup they put her in only accented the look. She was wearing silver heels and silver jewelry covered her wrists. Her hair was soft, fanning around her like a sort of halo of curls. There was something a little more familiar about her reflection this time around, and upon closer inspection, she realized what it was; if she looked closely enough, she could see the bags under her eyes that even all of her prep team’s makeup and her stylists’ touch-ups couldn't hide. Under all the makeup, they appeared faint, and she knew they wouldn't even show up on camera, but in the dark circles she saw the Athena Maris she knew so well.

She was distracted by her thoughts at the sounds of more people entering the room. She looked round to see who it was - and her heart dropped to the region of her stomach, sinking like an anchor. Flanked by two Peacekeepers was Peeta Mellark.

Seeing him weakened and injured on television was nothing compared to actually seeing him in real life. He looked like a mere shadow of the boy she had met during the Quarter Quell. His hands had that same nervous tremor to them that they had had during his last interview, but it was even worse this time. Beads of sweat were forming through the layer of powder applied to his skin. The foot of his prosthetic leg kept tapping out an odd, irregular beat. But it was his eyes that unnerved her the most; they seemed unfocused, almost empty...

 _What are they doing to you?_ Athena thought, her heart in her mouth and bile rushing up her throat. _What are they doing to you, what are they doing?_

Peeta's eyes landed on her, and something like relief flooded his face.

“Athena?” he said, like he couldn't be too sure. Even his voice sounded different, she realized with a jolt.

She nodded, and rushed across the room to meet him. To her surprise, no one stopped her. Perhaps it was for the same reason no one stopped her and Johanna from communicating. Perhaps it was because Athena and Peeta were going to be doing some sort of live broadcast together anyway.

“Peeta,” she whispered, when she'd drawn level with him, “Peeta - what have they - ”

“I don't have anything,” Peeta hissed as quietly as he could. There was a sudden urgency to his tone now. “I don't know - I don't have any answers - ”

“I know,” she said heavily. “I know, Peeta, I'm so sorry - it was never, _ever_ supposed to be like this. I haven’t forgotten about you, I’m trying to make Snow happy so that he’ll go easy on you and Johanna - ”

“Johanna,” he repeated, straightening up. “Johanna’s here too?”

Athena nodded, grim.

“Who else?”

“Just us,” Athena replied. “And Enobaria, I think. But she won’t be a prisoner or anything. But everyone else is in Thirteen.”

“Everyone?” he repeated. “Katniss too?”

“I think if he had Katniss, we’d know by now,” she said, as reassuringly as she could. “She’s safe. Safe as she can get, anyway.”

He nodded, but he still looked deeply troubled, murmuring something to himself that she couldn’t quite make out. Subtly, she extended her hand. An invitation. If he wanted it. He hesitated, before reaching out and taking her hand, clutching it in his, tightly enough to nearly stop the tremors. She ran a thumb along the back of his hand so that he was a little less tense. It calmed her down too, a little; it was nice to know that no matter how badly they had damaged him, it was still Peeta under all the makeup and injuries. Besides, it had been awfully long since someone had touched her in a way that didn’t make her feel unsafe or even uncertain, something nice and kind and supportive, something about which she didn't have to think twice. She thought the last time might’ve been while she was supporting a severely injured Johanna through the arena, which wasn’t quite the same. More accurately, it was with Finnick; touching him as she told him, reassuring herself as much as him, that they’d meet up again at midnight; kissing him in that temporary hideaway in the bushes...

“I guess you’re here for the same reason as me,” Athena said, after a moment. “Condemning the rebels and all.”

He nodded. “Same script. If they don’t stop, it’ll lead to the destruction of humanity and everything. From the Capitol to District Twelve.”

Athena tensed at that, freezing up. She looked at him closely, studying him. From the Capitol to District Twelve. But there was no need to worry about District Twelve now, because it was already gone. The Capitol destroyed it, rendered it all save Victor’s Village to smoulders. It seemed an odd thing to say - unless, of course, Peeta didn’t know that District Twelve was bombed into nothingness. That, in all likelihood, his entire family and most of the people he had known in his life were all dead. Did he know? How could he know? As much as she hated it, it did make perfect sense for Snow to withhold this information from Peeta; it would be much easier to manipulate him into doing his bidding if he could fill his head with false promises of him and Katniss (or, at the very least, just Katniss) getting to return to their home.

She had to tell him. This knowledge tore at her - he was already in such a bad state, who knew if he could bear this on top of everything; finding out that District Four had been reduced to ruins would destroy her - but she had to do it. Snow would punish her for it, but that didn’t matter. District Twelve was his home. He needed to know.

“What?” Peeta said, frowning, evidently noticing the change in her demeanour at his words. “What’s wrong?”

“Peeta - ” she began gently. At that moment, however, they were being called to their places. The broadcast would start in just five minutes. She pressed her lips together, looking around the room, more than a little on edge, before her eyes fell on Peeta again. He was still looking at her. “After. If we get the chance.” She tilted her head towards their designated place on set. “Come on.”

They walked over to where they were meant to sit, to the right of Snow’s podium, in front of the map of Panem. The two politicians were having last-minute discussions with Snow. They hadn’t stopped talking ever since Snow came to join them, she noticed. It must have been about something important. They were so close now. She could hear them, if she listened hard enough. She didn’t have to tell Peeta to keep quiet. They both fell deathly silent on their own accord.

“We’ll call for the aircrafts and their weaponry to be checked again and taken off in the middle of the broadcast,” one of the politicians was telling Snow. “It should reach Thirteen within the hour. The damage will be done by morning. They’ll be dead within hours.”

“Yes,” said another politician. “They'll lose far too many to keep fighting. Even if there are survivors, they'll be too weak to continue. They'll be kept off airwaves long enough for us to take back some control. And they’ll know better than to keep fighting. We may regain access to Thirteen's resources soon than we thought.”

“Excellent,” said Snow. “The end to the Mockingjay. The way Seneca Crane should have done a year ago. And the end to Thirteen, the way our predecessors should have done nearly a century ago.”

Athena's blood ran cold. Her heart stopped momentarily, before racing like it hadn't in so long. Her mind was racing, thoughts stumbling over each other as she took in the words of Snow and the two members of his circle and what they all meant.

Hovercrafts with bombs being launched. Tonight. During the broadcast. Headed towards Thirteen. Even District Thirteen’s underground bunkers would be destroyed. Nothing would be left. No survivors. No survivors. No Mockingjay and no other survivors. No Finnick.

She felt a tight pressure on her hand, looked down, and realized that Peeta’s grip on her was vice-like. He was almost as paper white as Snow, and when he looked over at her, his eyes were full of fear and something else. Something odd, something she couldn’t quite recognize.

“Did you - ?” he whispered.

She nodded before he could finish; as faint as his voice was, she didn’t want Snow or the other two politicians to hear them. It would be bad for them if they knew that they had heard them. Fear and panic was rising inside her like a tidal wave; when the wave crested and truly began to crash upon her, she knew the effects would be terrible. But not quite so bad as the effects of the bombing. Meant to wipe out every single person in District Thirteen.

“They’re gonna kill them all,” he whispered. “They’re gonna - they’re gonna - that wasn’t the deal... it wasn’t the deal... it wasn’t the deal... not supposed to be like this... was what I was afraid of...”

And at last, Athena recognized that other look in his eyes as one of anger. He had made a deal with Snow to protect Katniss, and now Snow planned on killing her in these bombings anyway. All Peeta had ever wanted to do was keep Katniss safe, and now Snow was set on killing her. There was still something unfocused in his eyes, too; as if he felt so much of this fear and rage that it made him feel lost. Like he didn’t know what to do with it. Like he didn’t know what to do at all anymore.

A member of the tech crew announced that there was a minute until the broadcast began. Snow stepped into the podium that seemed to barricade him. Protection from receiving all that he gave out; bombings, the Hunger Games, rape, poison... he fiddled with his lapel until the white rose that he always had there was in full, perfect view. The two politicians sat down in the two seats to their right. She supposed they would have something to talk about at some point during the broadcast and weren't just there for decoration, but she didn't know what. War stuff. Politics. Nothing she really knew anything about; she was just there to say that violence was bad and condemn the rebels and their actions and say that they were going to destroy humanity if they kept this up.

Except that was a lie. She did know things about the war - or, at the very least, she knew one thing about it. She knew one thing that nobody outside this room knew, including everyone in Thirteen. The Capitol intended on bombing Thirteen. Tonight. By the time it was over, they would all be dead. Finnick. Katniss. Beetee. Haymitch. Plutarch. _Finnick_. Everyone.

And they would be doomed too, Athena and Peeta and Johanna, although in a different way. With District Thirteen and Katniss both destroyed and out of the way, the rebellion would likely soon be brought to an end. With no more rebellion, Snow’s three victors-turned-prisoners wouldn’t have nearly as much use to him. Their already limited time would be cut even shorter.

She had to act. She couldn’t sit here and let this happen without doing anything at all. She had to do what she could. But what? What could she do here, a prisoner of the Capitol, a fool who’d strayed too far from the harbour, voiceless?

But she wasn’t voiceless, not really. The reason she was here, doing these interviews, was because her voice had power. Even Snow had outright said it. If using that voice was how she could help those in Thirteen, then that was what she would do. The Capitol was using this broadcast as a way to distract Thirteen while they sent bombs their way; Athena would have to find a way to redirect their attention to where it needed to be. And best of all, since this broadcast would be live, there was no way to edit out any of her warnings. They would be guaranteed to hear it in Thirteen.

Just as Athena came to that conclusion, one of the camera people was counting them down, Athena and Peeta quickly released each other, and then they were live in front of all of Panem. Including Thirteen, she knew.

Snow didn’t talk for very long. He greeted the country in his usual manner, before discussing very briefly the state of Panem and how much it tore at him to see this once glorious country be reduced to such violence and savagery over the ignorant actions of a few radicals.

“But if you wish for more than my word,” Snow continued, “I have several guests who can expand on the topic. First is a beloved victor from District Four, Athena Maris.”

Not quite with the same flair and charm as Caesar Flickerman, but she doubted that was Snow’s priority anyway. She sat up straighter, lifting her head slightly. She tried to arrange her features into a friendly, kind, warm, welcoming expression, but she didn’t smile. She figured talking about the violence of the rebels wasn’t something that warranted smiling; and in any case, she was so terrified and anxious, her heart beating wildly and sweat forming, that she knew she wouldn’t be able to manage a convincing one. She hesitated for a split second before she spoke, thinking hard about what she would say. She knew she couldn't just outright warn those in District Thirteen. She would be stopped; the broadcast might even be brought to an early end, she would be dragged away and punished, tortured, maybe even killed, which would serve to help no one if she didn't get her warning across. She would need to leave subtle hints with the hope that someone, perhaps Finnick or even Beetee or Katniss would pick up on them.

“People of Panem,” she began, as steadily as she could manage, hoping that the shakiness of her voice would just be interpreted as being from passion on this topic, “I, like so many of you, come from the districts, which means I understand why so many of you feel the way you do. Really, I do get it. But after seeing these recent events... I’m no longer just calling for a ceasefire, I am now begging you to lay down your weapons and stand down from heinous, needlessly violent fight. There have been too many casualties for any of you to justify all this chaos. There could be more tomorrow, even when and where you would least expect it.”

She opened her mouth to continue, but then stopped abruptly. In the screens displayed around the room that showed what was being broadcasted to the country, something odd happened; without warning, the screen shifted a from a close-up of Athena's face to a shot of Katniss standing before what looked to be the rubble of District Twelve. She was gone in a few seconds, the screens showing Athena's stunned, confused face as she tensed up. What had just happened? It seemed like nobody knew, because there were several moments of long, stunned silence until Athena realized she ought to keep talking. Slowly, hesitantly, she started up again.

“Wherever you are, please just... stop and _think_. Think about what's at stake, what you're risking, what you could lose at _any second._ Your lives. Your loved ones. Your homes. Everything you've ever worked for. I think you all know as well as I do that _nothing_ is worth that risk.”

But at that moment, the screen shifted again, and who she saw this time took her breath away. It was Finnick. It was like taking your first breath after far too long under water. Like jumping into the ocean for the first time on a hot day. She had figured he must have been alive and well, but to actually _see_ him as such was something else entirely. She drank in every detail of him; the slightly tousled, meticulously styled bronze hair, the grey jumpsuit he wore (the regular outfit in District Thirteen, perhaps?), the bright sea green of his eyes, everything. He looked different; exhausted and worn out and distant, as though his mind was somewhere different than his body, and that place was nothing good for him, taking its toll on him. But it was still him. It was still Finnick, alive and real and breathing. She nearly cried from relief.

She was so distracted by the mere sight of him that it took her a little longer than it normally would to take in what he was actually saying.

“...from what I have seen, President Snow doesn’t want you to know this. He insists that that’s a lie. He wants you to believe, instead, that Mags died from a stroke when she returned to the Training Center. A freak accident. Unexpected. Unpreventable. By the time help came, it was too late. That’s what President Snow and the Capitol want you to believe. But I know better. And I think you all do, too, because you know what they do. What they do every single time, even to people like Mags...”

Mags. He was talking about Mags. President Snow was waving away the truth about Mags’ death and instead trying to get the people to believe that her blood was not on his hands. Finnick was ensuring he couldn’t do it. He was making sure the truth was out there, that people could not forget her the way Snow probably wanted and even expected. Though it hurt to hear about Mags again, opening up wounds that had never really healed, she was so glad he was doing it that it nearly distracted her from all else.

But then, suddenly, the Capitol regained control of the broadcast and Finnick disappeared, leaving only Athena on screen again. Confused, even slightly frightened and panicked murmurs were spreading through the camera crew. None of them had any idea how this was happening. Her mind was racing. Finnick was alive and talking about Mags, but how was she even seeing him on screen? Somebody was breaking into the Capitol’s system. It had to be District Thirteen. Who else would have the means to do something so huge, something that Athena would've thought was impossible if she wasn't seeing it happen with her own two eyes. With someone like Beetee on their side, it might even be simple; after all, he'd know the Capitol system better than anyone else from the districts.

If they were breaking into the Capitol's system, would they be so distracted by that that they wouldn’t be able to see the bombs coming until it was too late? They needed to see what was really important in that moment. She needed to tell them, however she could.

“Go on, Miss Maris,” Snow said to her right, his voice firm but one of forced calm. Clearly trying to regain control of the situation. “You were imploring these radicals to think of what's at stake.”

“Right,” she said slowly, trying to collect her thoughts. “Right. Look, nothing is worth the chaos and the destruction that'll be the end of all of us if this violence keeps going. I know you might think you're doing what's right and that it'll work out in the end, but I think you'll find it'll all blow up in your faces sooner rather than later. You need to think about the past, about what you've done, if it's really as good and right and necessary as you thought it is. You need to to think about the present, about what the best thing to do for humanity really is. You need to think about the future. Or else, maybe even by tomorrow, you won’t have one anymore.”

Figuring she had said all she could really say, she fell silent. She chanced a glance over at Snow. He said nothing to her except a polite thank you for her thoughtful commentary, but she saw from the cold look in his eyes that he knew what she had done. He knew the secret message she was trying to convey within her outward, Capitol-approved message. And she would be punished for it badly later on, but she almost didn't care. If it could provide any sort of warning those in District Thirteen, then it would be worth it.

Peeta was staring at her too, as though his eyes were glued to her. A short clip flashed on the screen of a young man with olive skin, dark hair fighting off Capitol hovercrafts in District Eight before disappearing again, but Peeta didn't even seem to notice that, still looking at her. He didn't look at her the way Snow did, though. He didn't seem angry with her. If anything, he seemed stunned, unable to believe that she had done what she had. He too understood that her actions would end in severe punishment, that they were practically suicide (though, not quite suicide, because Snow wouldn't be foolish enough to punish her with something she wanted, so her actions wouldn't result in her death). Even when Snow introduced him to speak next, it took several moments for him to finally tear his eyes away from her and collect his thoughts.

He began to speak in a frustrated tone about the need for a cease-fire. It seemed Peeta was charged with the task of being much more specific about rebel violence than she was. He highlighted damage done to key infrastructure or resources in various districts. As he spoke, parts of the map behind them lit up, showing images of destruction. Over half of District Seven's Peacekeepers killed in an explosion. A derailed train with a pool of toxic waste spilling from the tank cars. A granary collapsing after a fire. All of this Peeta attributed to rebel action.

Without warning, Katniss was back on screen again, sitting by a peaceful-looking lake and singing what sounded like _The Hanging Tree._ Again, she wasn't on the screen for very long until the Capitol tech masters regained control, but it had more than enough impact on Peeta, who was more distracted than ever at the sight of her. He tried to pick up on his speech by moving onto the bombing of a water purification plant, but then a clip of Finnick talking about Rue from District Eleven replaced him.

With that, the whole event broke down into some sort of broadcast battle, as the Capitol tech masters fought to fend off District Thirteen's attack. But they were very underprepared in comparison to Thirteen, who, seeming to have already realized that they wouldn't be able to keep control for very long at a time, had an arsenal of five-to-ten second clips of what seemed to be propaganda footage of their own. Athena watched as the broadcast deteriorated, the tech master's shouting things and pressing all sorts of buttons in their booth off to the side, while on the screen flashed choice shots from the propaganda clips.

“Shut it down!” one of them cried. “Shut it down, block them out, then come back!”

A second later, the screen went black, before the Capitol seal appeared on the screen, accompanied by a flat audio tone. All the while, they kept shouting things as they tried to take back control.

“Athena,” Peeta hissed, grabbing onto her hand surprisingly tightly. “What if what you said wasn't enough? What if they don't get it? What if they still die anyway?”

“Peeta,” she said, a little uncertainly, because she was more than a little frightened of this too, “I don't - ”

“They wouldn't do this,” he said, shaking his head. “They wouldn't be doing this if they knew how much danger they were in. They have to know... they have to know...”

“Peeta - ”

But before she could say anything else, they were live again. Peeta released her at once.

The problem seemed to be far from solved. The tech crew were still making frantic exchanges as they worked as quickly as they could. Snow tried to plow forward, saying that clearly the rebels were now attempting to disrupt the dissemination of information they found incriminating, but both truth and justice would reign. The full broadcast would presume when security had been reinstated. He asked Peeta if, given tonight's demonstration, he had any parting thoughts for Katniss Everdeen.

Peeta's face contorted in effort at the mention of Katniss’ name. “Katniss... how do you think this will end? What will be left? No one is safe. Not in the Capitol. Not in the districts.” Athena realized what Peeta was going to say a split second before he said it. “And you... in Thirteen...” he inhaled sharply, as if fighting for air; his eyes looked almost insane. “Dead by morning!”

Athena had only a split second to feel shocked, before Snow was calling out sharply, “End it!”

District Thirteen really threw everything into chaos by flashing a still shot of Katniss standing in front of the hospital in District Eight at three second intervals. Athena wasn't paying attention to that, though; there was something much more urgent than District Thirteen intercepting the broadcast now. Mainly, that as Peeta tried to keep talking and warn Thirteen, Peacekeepers rushed towards him, moving so fast one of them knocked over the camera so that it was now recording the ground. They grabbed Peeta roughly, and one hit him so hard around the head with a baton that the sound of both the crack from the impact and Peeta's cry of pain felt like they were coming from inside her. He dropped to the ground, his form horribly lifeless and his blood splattering on the tiles.

“PEETA!” she screamed.

Any sort of logical reasoning had left her mind. She had to get to him, she had to reach him, she had to keep them from hurting him even worse. Instinctively, Athena was on her feet and running towards him, but then a baton connected with the back of her skull with such force that she blacked out before her body could hit the ground.


	8. VIII

Command was in complete and utter chaos. Everyone in the room was in uproar, questions and demands flying around the room at a dizzying pace, all of them trying to decipher the meaning of Athena's and Peeta's words. The meaning of their words. Nothing else. Finnick thought about their blood on the toils. He thought about the way Athena screamed Peeta’s name, her cry of pain when the blow of a Peacekeeper landed on her. Why was no one asking about the speakers themselves, the two people whose blood have been replaced by static, the people who were trapped and at the mercy of the Capitol, forced to face Snow's wrath, after what they had said? Was he the only one that cared about that more than the meaning itself?

No. He wasn't. Katniss, who was completely silent and looked petrified beside him, seemed more concerned about what she had seen on the screen than the meaning of those words. She had been so upset at the first sight of Peeta that he had taken her hand to ground her (and ground himself, admittedly, after seeing Athena), and now her grip on his hand was iron-tight, nearly cutting off his circulation. He only barely noticed it.

In any case, it was obvious what Athena’s and Peeta's words meant. He thought about the subtle hints Athena tried to give; “ _...there have been too many casualties for any of you to justify all this chaos. There could be more tomorrow, even when and where you would least expect it... think about what’s at stake, what you’re risking, what you could lose at any second. Your lives. Your loved ones. Everything you’ve ever worked for... I think you’ll find it’ll all blow up in your faces sooner rather than later... you need to think about the future. Or else, maybe even by tomorrow, you won’t have one anymore._ ” And, of course, Peeta’s final words: “And you... in Thirteen... dead by morning!” And they had been so tense during the broadcast, so terrified, in a way that couldn't be explained even by their imprisonment by the Capitol. It was clear that somehow, they had found out that an attack was going to be made on Thirteen tonight, something that would kill them all before morning came. He didn't understand why there was any confusion.

Neither, it seemed, did Haymitch, who said loudly, “Shut up!” All eyes fell upon him. “It's not some big mystery! They're telling us we're about to be attacked. Here. In Thirteen.”

“How would they have that information?”

“Why should we trust them?”

“How do you know?”

Haymitch growled in frustration.”They're both getting beaten bloody for what they said as we speak! What more do you need? Katniss, help me out here!”

Katniss didn't seem able to speak, so Finnick managed to regain his own voice long enough to help her out. “Haymitch is right. I know Athena. She would never say something like that unless she was absolutely certain it was true. Besides, Athena and Peeta were in Snow's mansion, and there were those two politicians - powerful, important politicians. They could've easily overheard something that the three of them were talking about.”

Katniss began nodding slowly, and said at last, “Haymitch and Finnick are right. I don't know where exactly Peeta and Athena got the information. Or if it's true. But they both believe it is. And they're -” Katniss stopped abruptly, either unsure of what treatment they were receiving now or unable to bear thinking about it.

“You don't know them,” Haymitch told Coin. “We do. Get your people ready.”

The president seemed more perplexed than alarmed by this turn of events. Perhaps the ability to stay utterly calm in the face of a potential deadly attack was the quality of a good president. She mulled over these words, tapping one finger lightly on the rim of the control board in front of her. She addressed Haymitch in an even voice.

“Of course, we have prepared for such a scenario. Although we have decades of support for the assumption that further direct attacks on Thirteen would be counterproductive to the Capitol's cause. Nuclear missiles would release radiation into the atmosphere, with incalculable environmental results. Even routine bombing could badly damage our military compound, which we know they hope to regain. And, of course, they invite a counterstrike. It is conceivable that, given our current alliance with the rebels, those would be viewed as acceptable risks.”

“You think so?” said Haymitch; a shade too sincere, but the subtleties of irony were so often lost in District Thirteen that Coin didn't seem to notice.

“I do. At any rate, we're overdue for a Level Five security drill,” said Coin. “Let's proceed with the lockdown.” She began typing rapidly on her keyboard, authorizing her decision. As soon as she lifted her head, it began.

Finnick had experienced two low-level drills since his arrival in Thirteen - well, technically experienced them, since they couldn't be classified as much of an experience. The first had been while he was still in intensive care at the hospital, and patients had been exempted since the complications of removing them all for a practice drill outweighed the benefits. He could only vaguely remember a mechanical voice instructing people to congregate in yellow zones- whatever those were(which he really should know, he realized. He could get away with ignorance while he was a patient, but now that he had been officially discharged with quarters of his own, he was probably required and expected to know these things). The second was a Level Two drill meant for minor crises - such as a temporary quarantine while citizens were tested for contagion during a flu outbreak - but since he was still in the hospital at that time, too, all he did was lie in his bed and tie his knots and stare at the ceiling, the pulsating beeps from the audio system rattling around and echoing in his head like there was nothing else there.

Neither of those things were good preparation for this; the wordless, eardrum-piercing, fear-inducing sirens that were now permeating Thirteen. There would be no disregarding this sound, which seemed to be designed to throw the whole population into a frenzy. That would certainly be what happened back home, or anywhere else, really - except for here, because this was District Thirteen, and that sort of thing didn’t happen here. Boggs guided Finnick and Katniss out of Command, along the hall to a doorway, and onto a wide stairway. Streams of people are converging to form a river that flowed downward. No one shrieked or tried to push ahead or anything of the sort, the sort of scene he had been expecting. Even children didn’t resist. They descended, flight after flight, speechless, because no words could possibly be heard above this sound anyway. It was impossible to see anyone but those immediately around him.

Finnick’s ears popped and his eyes felt heavy. They were deep underground the ground now. Much deeper than where the dead were buried. The thought made him realize that they were all living underneath a burial ground. The only positive side was that the further they retreated into the earth, the less shrill the sirens become, signalling their safety the further down they went. It was if the sirens were meant to physically drive them away from the surface, which, Finnick supposed, they were. Groups of people began to peel off into marked doorways and still Boggs directed him and Katniss downward, until finally the stairs ended at the edge of an enormous cavern. He and Katniss went to walk straight in, but Boggs stopped them and showed them that they had to wave their schedules in front of a scanner so that they were accounted for; no doubt the information was going to some computer somewhere to ensure no one had gone astray.

This place seemed incapable of deciding whether it was natural or man-made. Certain areas of the wall were made of stone, while steel beams and concrete heavily reinforced others. Sleeping bunks were built right into the rock walls, able to be pulled down when needed. There was a kitchen, bathrooms, a first-aid station. This place was designed for an extended stay.

White signs with letters or numbers were placed at intervals around the cavern. As Boggs told Finnick and Katniss to report to the area that matched their assigned quarters - in his case, 302 for Compartment 302 - Plutarch strolled up to them.

“Ah, there you are,” he said. Finnick noted that recent events have had little effect on Plutarch’s mood. He still had that same happy glow from Beetee’s success on the Airtime Assault. Eyes on the forest, not on the trees - that was the motto he said he’d always employed as a Gamemaker, and it was probably no different now that he was with the rebels. Always focused on the bigger picture. Or what he saw as the bigger picture, anyway. Not on Athena’s imprisonment or Peeta’s punishment or even District Thirteen’s imminent blasting that directly affected him. “Katniss, Finnick, obviously this is a bad moment for you, what with Athena's and Peeta’s setback, but you need to be aware that others will be watching you.”

“What?” Katniss said, about as taken aback as Finnick that Athena’s and Peeta’s dire circumstances had been downgraded to a setback.

“The other people in the bunker,” Plutarch elaborated, “they’ll be taking their cue on how to react from you. If you’re calm and brave, others will try to be as well. If you panic, it could spread like wildfire.” Finnick and Katniss both just stared at him. He added, as though they were slow on the uptake, “Fire is catching, so to speak.”

“Why don’t I just pretend I’m on camera, Plutarch?” said Katniss.

“Yes! Perfect!” Plutarch said, evidently missing - or perhaps choosing to miss - the sarcasm in her voice. “One is always much braver with an audience - look at the courage Athena and Peeta just displayed!”

Katniss looked like she wanted to hit him. Finnick couldn't blame her. He was dangerously close to it himself, but then Plutarch was saying, “I've got to get back to Coin before lockdown. You keep up the good work!” and headed off.

Deciding it would be better for him if he just pretended that entire exchange never happened, Finnick parted ways with Katniss and Boggs and crossed over to the big '302’ on the wall. His space consisted of a twelve-by-twelve foot square of stone floor delineated by painted lines. Carved into the walls was one bunk and a ground-level cube for storage. A piece of white paper, coated in clear plastic, read 'BUNKER PROTOCOL.’ He stared at the white sheet for a long time. It seemed like Athena's name was written all over it, blocking anything else and pushing it to the background. He blinked. Her name was still scrawled everywhere, the ink running like flowing blood -

He blinked again, long and hard, before opening his eyes. Her name was gone. He was just looking at words on a page. He began going through them. The first section was entitled, ‘On Arrival,’ and read:

_1.Make sure all members of your Compartment are accounted for._

He was the only member of his Compartment, so that was easy.

_2.Go to the Supply Station and secure one pack for each member of your Compartment. Ready your Living Area. Return pack(s)._

Finnick's eyes scanned the cavern until they found the Supply Station, a deep room set off by a counter. Nobody was there save for the man at the counter, so Finnick walked over, gave his Compartment number, and requested a pack. The man checked from a sheet, pulled out of the specified pack from shelving, and swung it up onto the counter. Finnick slid it over his back, thanked the man, and made to leave, only to find a small group clustered together behind him. He tried to push through as gracefully as he could. Was it merely a matter of coincidence or timing? Or did Plutarch have a point about people modelling their behaviour after him? It had made sense with Katniss, being the Mockingjay and all, but why him? What were people seeing in him that was worth modelling? He was pretty sure he still had his mentally disoriented bracelet on.

The weight of the pack surprised him a little. He had been expecting the barest of supplies, something similar to what they usually offered at the Cornucopia in the Games, especially considering how frugal Thirteen was with its resources. When he was back at his space, however, he opened his pack to find a thin mattress, bedding, two sets of grey clothing, a toothbrush, a comb and a flashlight. All things you would never hope to find in the Games, except for perhaps a flashlight, depending on the arena.

 _“You're not in the arena now,”_ he could hear Doctor Silver's voice telling him. _“You're safe now. You're totally safe.”_

Except he could still hear those sirens rattling about and echoing in his brain, which sort of ruined the idea of total safety.

He made the bed, stored the clothes and other supplies, and returned the backpack. After coming back to his space, he read the last rule.

_3\. Await further instructions._

He sat down on the floor and waited. A steady flow of people began filling the room, claiming spaces, collecting supplies. It wouldn't be long before the place was full. Before long, he started getting anxious and jittery, so he pulled out the length of rope from his pocket to busy his hands, tying and untying his knots. Pretty soon, the door were shut with what seemed to be everyone safely inside, including Gale and Katniss’ sister, having narrowly made it in time, the latter carrying a large orange cat that, according to Katniss, was positively demonic. Now that this moment of stillness, of inactivity, had come after all the chaos, there was no way to stop himself from thinking about the broadcast. About Peeta. About Athena. Athena. _Athena_ -

He tied a butterfly knot, then yanked it loose, already starting on a new one, yet still there was no way to keep his mind from running wild. He thought about Athena's cry of pain. He thought about the crack as that horrible blow landed on Peeta. He thought about the blood on the floor. What would they do to Peeta, who blatantly revealed Capitol military plans to their enemy? What would happen to Athena, who had done the same in more subtle terms, who had clearly encouraged Peeta to say what he had, whether she had meant to or not? She would probably live, he knew. It was unlikely that they would kill her. She was still far too useful, and they wouldn't want to show her any mercy by simply ending her pain. All the same, she was doomed. She had doomed herself to save them. To protect them, the very people who had failed and abandoned her. Always protecting them.

Nobody in Thirteen deserved her. He certainly didn't, and he had always known it. Finnick remembered when he had first known her so vividly it might have been weeks ago rather than years. He had been careful with her at first - or, at least, tried to be, wanted to be. He was frightened he would do something that would cross the lines President Snow had set out for him, or worse, he’d cross one of Athena’s lines and scare her away or make her hate him the way he suspected he deserved to be hated. It had always been there, lingering in his mind that she deserved much better, that perhaps the time would come where she'd fall in love with someone else and he'd have to step aside and be happy for her, because he could never expect her to love him, far too aware of all the things she deserved that he could not give to her. Not that that mattered anymore, anyway. Because Athena was a prisoner in the Capitol and as far as he knew, there were still no plans to rescue her and Snow would eventually kill her in the most painful, humiliating way possible -

He was distracted from his thoughts when he realized that the faint sounds of the sirens had cut off sharply. Coin’s voice came over the district audio system, thanking them all for such an exemplary evacuation of the upper levels. She stressed that this was not a drill, as Athena Maris and Peeta Mellark, victors from Districts Four and Twelve respectively, had possibly made a televised reference to an attack on Thirteen tonight.

That was when the first bomb hit. There was the initial sense of impact, followed by an explosion that resonated everywhere inside of him; the lining of his intestines, the marrow of his bones, the roots of his teeth.

 _We're all going to die,_ was Finnick's first thought. It didn't scare him quite as much as he thought it should have. In fact, he felt an uncontrollable laugh bubble up from his chest and escape his lips, still tying and untying his knots relentlessly. He was pretty sure nobody heard him, which was probably a good thing.

His eyes turned upward, and he was half expecting to see giant cracks racing across the ceiling and massive chunks of stone raining down upon them, but the bunker itself only gave a slight shudder. The lights went off and there was several seconds of disorientation due to the total darkness. Speechless human noises - spontaneous shrieks, ragged breaths, baby whimpers, one musical bit of insane laughter, much louder than his - all danced around in the tense, charged air. There was the hum of a generator, and a dim wavering glow replaces the stark lighting that usually seemed to be everywhere in Thirteen. This was close to what it was like in District Four, mild, warm lighting during dark nights.

He wondered what sort of bombs these were. If they were nuclear. They had to be very powerful for them to be able to feel it this deep into the ground. His eyes slid over in the direction of the heavy metal doors at the end of the bunker, much harder to see in the gloom. Would they provide any protection at all against a nuclear attack? Even if they would, which was highly unlikely, would they ever be able to leave? The idea of being stuck here for whatever remained of his life was horrifying, making him feel claustrophobic in a way he hadn’t been moments before. He wished he could just run out and be released into whatever lied above. How much time would he really have if they all wound up being stuck here, anyway? It wasn’t time he wanted, either way. But it was useless. They would never let him out, and it might start cause chaos within the bunker.

Coin’s voice, perhaps a shade grimmer, filled the bunker, the volume level flickering with the lights. “Apparently, Athena Maris’ and Peeta Mellark’s information was sound and we owe them a great debt of gratitude. Sensors indicate the first missile was not nuclear, but very powerful. We expect more will follow. For the duration of the attack, citizens are to stay in their assigned areas unless otherwise notified.”

“We’re safe down here,” a voice came. Finnick looked over and found Dalton a little ways’ away. He was leaning against a pillar, fiddling with his shirt sleeves. “We’re so far down, we have to be. Still, it feels like the bunker’s going to collapse on us. It feels like the whole world’s going to collapse on us.”

To Finnick, it had felt like the world had been falling down for quite some time now, so he simply nodded. “I know what you mean.”

Dalton merely looked at him for a long time, before saying, “Look, from the looks of it, it was a close call. Really close. We might’ve all been dead, if Athena and Peeta weren’t brave enough to say what they did. Bravery like that - people like that - don't come around often.”

 _Well, yes, that’s the problem,_ Finnick thought. _That people like that are in the Capitol, at Snow’s mercy..._

“Exactly. Now what d’you think Snow’s going to do to them?” Finnick said. “After what they pulled?”

Dalton was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know. I don’t know him. Not like you do.”

This answered surprised Finnick a little. District Thirteen seemed so full of people who insisted they knew better, that they had the situation covered, with little regard for what he - or Katniss, it seemed - had to say that someone openly admitting that he knew more than them was a rather shocking thing.

“There’s no chance for them,” was all Finnick said, trying to focus on the movement of his hands as he tied another knot. “Snow’s going to kill them as soon as he’s done punishing them. And me. And the Mockingjay. And all of us.”

“Well, from what you’re saying,” said Dalton, “I don't think he's going to kill Athena any time soon. Not when he thinks he can break her. Not when he thinks he can break you. And besides, he might not kill either of them at all.” Dalton said. At the disbelieving look on Finnick’s face, he elaborated. “He might not get the chance, I mean. They might be rescued before then.”

“There’s no plan for a rescue mission,” Finnick said shortly, tugging on his rope perhaps a little harder than altogether necessary, willing himself to keep a straight face and not cry. “They say it’s too costly.”

“Maybe,” Dalton said. “But President Coin herself said that they owe Athena and Peeta a lot for their warning. Who knows how many people they saved because of what they did. That’s not something that gets taken lightly in Thirteen. Maybe they’ll keep it in mind when talking about rescuing them.”

Finnick doubted it, though. District Thirteen seemed to care about practicality above all else, getting what they needed - nothing more, nothing less. It didn’t seem likely that they would take the great risk of extracting the prisoners from the Capitols just because they had warned them of this attack, even if it was a warning that saved many citizens.

Dalton seemed to be able to tell what Finnick was thinking, because he said, “Look, I used to think that there was no District Thirteen and that there was no chance at a better life in Panem. Now I’m here.”

“We’re getting bombed.”

“The fact that they’re even using missiles on us means that they’re threatened,” Dalton said, shooting him a look. “Which they wouldn’t be unless we actually had a chance of winning this. Besides, I went my whole life thinking the resistance didn’t even exist. But here it is. And they took me in. and who knows where we might be in a few years or months or even weeks. It’s something, Finnick. There is still some hope left. It’s okay to believe in it.”

There was no time to say anything to that, because at that moment, they, along with a few others in the area, were given clearance to use the bathroom and brush their teeth, although showering was cancelled for the day. When they both returned to their designated areas, neither of them spoke. Finnick wasn’t sure if he liked the silence or not, but he didn’t know what to say, so in silence they remained. He did think about Dalton’s words a lot, though. What he said about Snow not killing Athena until he was sure he had broken both Athena and Finnick alike did not surprise him. If anything, that was old news to him, something he had figured out long ago, something that only made the pain worse.

He thought more about what Dalton said about hope. The mere idea of hope seemed to have become something of a fairy tale to him, to the extent that he had been a little surprised when Dalton brought it up at all. A fairy tale. Something everyone wanted to believe in but knew better. Something that did not exist. Something impossible. Something that growing older always snuffed out of you. But then again, what were they all fighting for, then? If not for the hope that things could become better than they were now? Without hope, what was the point?

He thought about the way the missiles shook him to his very core, thought about that awful, pained noise Athena had let out when she’d been knocked out, and decided Dalton was just very good at making impossible things sound conceivable.

Impossible things. That seemed to be the source of a lot of his pain now, the fact that he wanted to believe in impossible things. Like love. Like a future where he could be happy and in love and with Athena. And he had known it was impossible, but the warmth and light and happiness her presence filled him with was too much to not believe in it anyway. And now here he was, and he could not say he didn’t know any better, because he had, and now this was his punishment. Snow was punishing him until he was broken, and he already felt close to it.

Something about this thought reminded him of a conversation he’d had with Johanna several years back, the first year she had started mentoring. While Athena was working on sealing some sponsorships for their tributes, Finnick and Johanna had a moment to talk. They were talking about their tributes, and something about the way Johanna was talking about one of her tributes, a girl named Aspen Wilda, a year younger than Johanna, with long dark hair and eyes, had seemed off to him. Too invested. Too attached. Finnick was all too familiar with what that looked and sounded like.

Finnick had given her a hard look, studying her carefully, before saying, “Don’t fall in love with your tributes, Johanna. You don’t want to go down that route.”

“Coming from you!” Johanna retorted hotly, already fired up and ready to defend herself. Even though there wasn’t much of a difference in age, with Finnick having only an extra three years on Johanna and Athena only have two, they still tended to interact with Johanna as if she was a younger, particularly rebellious, sister. Finnick knew that deep down, she appreciated it, but it also got on her nerves very often.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Finnick asked, pretending he had no idea.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Odair,” Johanna had said dangerously. “You can’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about considering the way you act with _her!_ ”

At that, she pointed over at Athena, who was still dazzling the group of Capitol citizens that stood around her. Finnick couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could practically see the sponsorships being sealed at that moment.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said immediately. At the look Johanna gave him, he added, “She’s not my tribute.”

“But she was when you met her!” she said. “And did that stop _you?_ ”

“You don’t know that it didn’t,” he said, then added, changing the subject, “Besides, why are you so keen on repeating my mistakes, then? If you’re so convinced that I’m in love with her, maybe I’m speaking from experience that it’s hard.”

“Maybe,” Johanna scoffed.

At that moment, Athena had rejoined them, having successfully sealed sponsorships from every member of the group, bringing the conversation an effective halt. That year, there was no victor from District Seven. Instead, Roman Zale, Finnick and Athena’s tribute, had been crowned victor. Aspen Wilda never made it out of the arena. Finnick had sort of been expecting Johanna to be angry at him and Athena and Roman, but to his surprise, Johanna never said anything. She didn’t talk about Roman. She didn’t talk about that year’s Games. She never so much as mentioned Aspen’s name. And Johanna still had no one she could really call her friend over in Seven.

He thought about Johanna. There was no sign of her at all. Was it because Snow didn’t think she was someone they could put on television, or because whatever they were doing to her was so terrible that even makeup couldn’t cover it up? It could easily be either or both. At least with Athena and Peeta, he had some sort of idea about what state they were in. But for all he knew, Johanna could be dead already. So, for that matter, could Annie and Roman and the other victors back in Four. Or they could be arrested. Or perhaps they were relatively free, hiding out from the danger or even participating in the rebellion. He had no way of knowing. They were still having trouble communicating in Four. He had no way of knowing what was happening in his home, to his people. He had no way of knowing what was happening to his friends. He had no way of knowing what was happening to the love of his life, even now, at this very moment, perhaps being tortured by Snow -

At some point around there, a part of him that was only barely managing to stay in tact broke down, sobs wracking his body as he wept quietly. Or maybe he wasn't being quiet. It was possible he was crying quite loudly, but at that moment another round of bombs hit, shaking the bunker again, and they were so loud that nobody could hear him, including himself.

Time stretched on, District Thirteen's citizens remaining trapped in this prison of safety (he wondered what sort of prison Athena was being kept in, when the last time was that she felt safe, why he hadn't succeeded in making sure she did feel that way). They were there for another three days. In that time, four more bunker missiles were dropped upon them, all massive, all very damaging, but with no urgency to the attack. The bombs were spread out over the long hours so that just when you thought the raid was over, another blast sent shock waves through your entire body. Just when you thought you were safe, more danger hit you, twice as hard as before. It felt more designed to keep them in lockdown rather than decimate Thirteen. Keep the district incapacitated, yes. Give them plenty to do to get the place running again, time the Capitol could take to regain any control they might have lost. But not destroy it. Coin had a point; the Capitol wouldn't destroy something they eventually wanted to acquire. Their short term goal was probably to stop airtime assaults and keep Katniss off of Panem's televisions - and cause considerable damage, while they were at it.

They received little to no information about what was happening. Their screens never came on, and they only got brief audio updates from Coin about the nature of the bombs. The war was still being waged, but they were being kept in the dark about its status.

Cooperation was the order of the day in the bunker. They adhered to a strict schedule for meals, bathing, exercise, and sleep. They were granted small periods of time for socialization to alleviate the tedium. Katniss and her family's space became a very popular space due to the fascination with their cat, Buttercup. This was the probably the first pet that was kept in Thirteen, so he could understand their interest. The cat attained celebrity status through a game Katniss called Crazy Cat, wherein she wiggled a flashlight beam around on the floor and simply watched as Buttercup tried to catch it. She seemed to enjoy it because she thought he looked stupid, but she was alone in this, as everyone else seemed to find the cat clever and delightful. The people of Thirteen were so starved for entertainment that Katniss was even issued a special pack of batteries - something that had to be considered an enormous waste in Thirteen - for this purpose. Finnick found the game funny at first, but something about watching Buttercup jump and scurry about desperately in an attempt to secure the light reminded him oddly of himself and Snow and Athena in the Capitol, and the whole thing lost its humor. After the first occurrence of the game, he simply walked back to his space, threw himself onto the mattress, and only managed to tie a few knots before he'd dissolved into tears again.

The game continued on until the third night, though. He could hear people's laughter from his space as the cat kept jumping around and running around, trying to catch the light, until they were finally redirected to bed. The power was coming and going; sometimes the lamps burned at full brightness, and other times, they had to squint to see anything. At bedtime, they turned the lamps to near darkness and activated the safety lights in each space. Finnick lied down and tried to sleep, but gave up after hours of tossing and turning and restlessness and an aching feeling in his chest weighing his whole body down. He sat up and focused on tying and untying his knots.

Again, he was thinking about what Dalton had said to him earlier, about the things he'd known all along. Snow would not kill Athena until he had broken them both. But when would that be? How long until he snapped and was shattered into something that could never be made whole again? And how long did Athena have? He already knew they must have weakened her considerably, torturing her frequently, but how much worse would it be after warning Thirteen of the bombing? Would whatever Snow was planning to use to punish her be what broke her once and for all?

He untied his bowline knot with a hard tug and blinked back tears, willing the stinging sensation in his eyes to go away, though there was nothing he could do about the deep, heavy pain that was spreading to every inch of his body.

The restless, wiggling majority had settled themselves to sleep, but before long he heard footsteps coming his way. He looked over, expecting someone from Thirteen who would reprimand him for not sleeping or even sedate him, but it was only Katniss. He shifted to make room for her, and they sat down side by side on the edge of his mattress. She whispered to him the discovery she had made while playing Crazy Cat earlier; the realization that Snow was using the fact that Peeta was in his possession to break her. Finnick, having already realized this, sat quietly and listened as she talked, his heart somehow feeling heavier. This was how Katniss must have been holding on; the idea that Peeta was in the hands of the Capitol was horrible, yes, but the pain that came with the realization that he was only being tortured to punish her was unendurable.

“You already knew, didn’t you?” Katniss said slowly, staring at him. “This is what they’re doing to you with Athena, isn’t it?”

“Well, the thing about Athena is that she’s sort of the perfect prisoner for the Capitol,” he said lowly. “If you think about it. Snow was probably so _thrilled_ \- ” he tugged his manger hitch a little harder than needed - “when he realized he had her. She has information about the rebels, even if it’s not a ton, and to Snow, she’s got a lot of crimes she needs to be punished for, and by torturing her, he can break the both of us. And they’ve probably got Annie as well, and they didn’t exactly arrest her because they thought she’d be a wealth of rebel information. They know me and Athena would’ve never risked telling her anything like that. For her own protection.”

“Oh, Finnick,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” he said firmly. “That I didn’t warn you somehow.”

Katniss was silent for a moment, looking deep in thought, before saying slowly, “You did warn me, though. On the hovercraft. Only when you said they’d use Peeta against me, I thought you meant like bait. To lure me into the Capitol somehow.”

Finnick shook his head, looking down at his hands as they busied themselves with the rope. “I shouldn’t have even said that. It was too late for it to be of any help to you. Since I hadn’t warned you about the Quarter Quell, I should’ve shut up about how Snow operates.” He yanked on the end of his rope, allowing the intricate knot to become a straight line again. He paused for a moment. Let himself think, remember the girl and boy from District Twelve he had met during the Quell. Remembered the indifference, if not a tentative friendship, that he had assumed existed between them, only to be proven wrong when the Games begun. “It’s just that I didn't understand when I met you. After your first Games, I thought the whole romance was an act on your part. We all expected you’d continue that strategy. But it wasn’t until Peeta hit the force field and nearly died that I - ”

But Finnick hesitated. Katniss already had too many people telling her how she felt, or how she ought to feel, about her life, particularly about the people in her life, particularly about Peeta. She probably didn’t know how she felt about him - and really, when would she have had the time to figure it out, in the midst of all the rebellions and bloodshed and death? He didn’t want to be the latest addition in a progressively growing list of people who were pushing her in whichever direction they wanted her to go.

Katniss, who, from the look on her face, seemed to be recalling the memory, said, “That you what?”

“That - that I knew I’d misjudged you,” he finally said gently. “That you do love him. I’m not saying in what way. Maybe you don’t know yourself. But anyone paying attention can see how much you care about him.”

In the silence that followed these words, Finnick went back to tying and untying his knots, but he looked at Katniss out of the corner of his eye. She was watching as knots bloomed and vanished, but he could tell that her mind was somewhere else, somewhere far away. Maybe in the arena. Maybe in the Capitol. Maybe in District Twelve. Maybe she was mulling over her feelings for Peeta, and the catch that came with them; that her love for Peeta existing and being evident had armed Snow with the ammunition needed to break her, just as always, when he found out the weaknesses of those he wanted to control.

Finally, Katniss broke the silence, saying, as though the words were difficult to get out, “How do you bear it?”

Finnick looked up at her at that, surprised she’d had to ask. “I don’t, Katniss! Obviously, I don’t. I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there’s no relief in waking.” He was going to keep going, saw the look on her face, and stopped, reeling himself back in. “Better not to give into it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart. The more you can distract yourself, the better. First thing tomorrow, we’ll get you your own rope. Until then, take mine.”

It was the first time since obtaining the rope that he wouldn’t have it in his possession; now that it was gone he was realizing how bad the rope burn between his fingers had gotten, he was even more fidgety and restless than before, and when the pain became too much and anxiety was overwhelming, it took much more time and willpower to calm himself back down. But as Katniss got into the swing of knotting and unknotting the rope, something about her seemed more calm, less desperate, less ridden with pain and grief, and when she left to return to her own space, he got the distinct feeling that she’d still be holding onto herself when morning came, so Finnick figured it was worth it.

With twenty-four hours of quiet behind them, Coin finally announced that they were allowed to leave the bunker. Their old quarters had been destroyed by the bombings. Everyone was to follow exact directions to their new compartments. They cleaned their spaces, as directed, and filed obediently towards the door.

Before he could make it too far, he saw someone signaling to him out of the corner of his eye and saw Boggs standing with Katniss and Gale. He could see the rope dangling in Katniss’ hand. He walked over to join them, and Boggs lead them away. People moved aside to let them by; some smiled at Katniss, since Crazy Cat had apparently made her more popular. They went out the door, up the stairs, down the hall to one of the multidirectional elevators, until they arrived at Special Defense. Nothing along their route there was damaged, but they were also still very deep underground.

Boggs ushered them into a room that was pretty much identical to Command. Coin, Plutarch, Haymitch, Cressida, and everyone else around the table looked exhausted. Someone had finally broken out the coffee - Finnick assumed it was viewed as an emergency stimulant - and Plutarch had both hands wrapped tightly around his cup as though scared that it would be taken away at any moment. Finnick almost wanted to laugh at the sight, though the humor was ruined by the realization that he too was craving the stuff, especially now, as tired as he was.

There was no attempt at small talk. The president got right to business, saying, “We need all four of you suited up and above ground. You have two hours to get footage showing the damage from the bombing, establish that Thirteen’s military unit remains not only functional but dominant, and, most importantly, that the Mockingjay is still alive. Any questions?”

“Can we have a coffee?” Finnick asked.

Thankfully, steaming cups of the shiny black liquid were handed out. Finnick noticed Katniss staring distastefully at her cup, grinned, sloshed some cream into her cup, and reached into the sugar bowl. “Want a sugar cube?”

He said it in his old seductive voice, which he was a little surprised to find he still had down perfectly. For some reason, he thought he’d have lost the ability at some point after landing in Thirteen. He supposed there were some things you just didn’t forget. This was how they had met, with Finnick offering her sugar. While they surrounded by horses and chariots, costumed and painted for crowds, before they were allies. Before they had really known each other at all. Katniss smiled. Maybe because they were now so far away from that place, far away from the people they had been then, stripped of all the glamour and glory, that the mere memory seemed ridiculous.

In his real voice, he said, plunking a couple cubes in her cup, “Here, it improves the taste. Athena and Mags never drink the stuff without putting a bunch in.”

As soon as they had finished downing their coffee, they were hurried away to get ready for the cameras. As they were whisked away in different directions, he caught side of Gale watching them unhappily. It was possible that Gale had something against him, but after he worked past his initial biases due to Finnick’s reputation in the Capitol (The whore of District Four, people would whisper about him a lot, always willing to add more lovers to his string of wealthy Capitol suitors), he didn’t seem to have a problem with him. Finnick remembered the way Gale would look at Katniss when he thought nobody was paying attention and thought it was more likely that he thought something was happening between he and Katniss. The idea that, in the midst of everything that was happening and had happened before, there would be some sort of romance between he and Katniss of all people seemed so ridiculous he didn’t even bother entertaining it at all. He was running on a cup of coffee and minimal hours of sleep, he was still restless and anxious without his rope to bring him back down easily, a camera crew was waiting for him to do something brilliant, and President Snow had the love of his life locked up being tortured in a cell somewhere. Gale Hawthorne could make all the assumptions and go through all the teenaged mood swings he wanted.

Finnick was dressed in the all-black uniform that soldiers in the military here wore, before his hair was fixed and makeup was applied to hide how exhausted he looked. By the time he was ready, he could feel the coffee taking effect, a slight buzz running through his veins.

After climbing one more ladder, Boggs hit a lever that opened a trap door. Fresh air rushed in. Finnick breathed in and out deeply, taking big gulps of the air. He realized just how much he hated the bunker, just how much he hated being underground all the time in general. They emerged into the woods. Katniss, all dressed up as the Mockingjay, ran her hands through the leaves overhead, some of them starting to turn. When she asked what day it was, Boggs informed her that September began next week.

September. If they were nearing September already, that meant Snow had had Athena, Johanna, and Peeta in his clutches for five, maybe six weeks. Finnick realized his hands were shaking, couldn’t make them stop, and balled them up into fists, stuffing them in his pockets. His breathing was far too rapid for his liking, but all the deep breathing exercises in the world couldn’t seem to slow it down.

Debris began littering the forest floor. They came across their first crater, thirty yards wide and much deeper. Boggs informed them that anyone on the first ten levels would have likely been killed. The skirted the pit and kept moving.

“Can you rebuild it?” Gale asked.

“Not anytime soon,” Boggs said. “That one didn’t get much. A few backup generators and a poultry farm. We’ll just seal it off.”

The trees disappeared as they entered the area inside the fence. The craters were ringed with a mixture of old and new rubble. Before the bombing, very little of the current Thirteen was above ground. A few guard stations. The training area. About a foot of the top floor of the building with several feet of steel on top of it. Even that was never meant to withstand more than a superficial attack.

“How much of an edge did the warning give you?” Haymitch asked.

“About ten minutes before our own systems would’ve detected the missiles,” said Boggs.

“But it did help, right?” Katniss said, and Finnick found himself desperate to know. He didn’t think he could bear it if the answer was no after what Athena and Peeta were doubtlessly going through even at that very second.

“Absolutely,” said Boggs. “Civilian evacuation was completed. Seconds count when you’re under attack. Ten minutes means lives saved.”

Cressida suggested filming Katniss in front of the ruins of the old Justice Building, which was something of a joke since the Capitol had been using it as a backdrop for fake news broadcasts for years, with the goal of showing that the district no longer existed. Now, with the recent attack, the Justice Building sat about ten yards away from the edge of a new crater. As they approached what used to be the ground entrance, Gale pointed out something that made the whole party slow down. It took Finnick a split second to see the fresh pink and red roses.

“Don't touch them!” Katniss yelled. “They're for me!”

Shakily, she explained the single red rose she had found on her dresser in her home back in District Twelve. This appeared to be Snow's second delivery. It wasn't surprising, really; roses were Snow's favourite flower. And it's seemed the sort of thing Snow would use to taunt her about Peeta, sending her flowers meant not for one, but a pair of lovers.

Upon inspection, they appeared to be harmless, if genetically enhanced, flowers. Two dozen roses. Slightly wilted. Most likely dropped after the last bombing. A crew in special suits collected and carted them away, but Finnick doubted they would find anything out of the ordinary about them. He was positive that Snow's goal had been to torment Katniss further, and from the look on her face, it was clear he was succeeding. There was no time for Finnick to say anything to her, because Cressida was getting Castor and Pollux in place to start filming.

“So, what exactly do you need from me again?” Katniss asked.

“Just a few quick lines about how you're alive and still fighting,” said Cressida.

“Okay,” Katniss said, getting into position, but all she did was stare blankly at the red light for several extended moments. “I'm sorry, I've got nothing.”

Cressida walked up to her. “You feeling okay?” Katniss nodded. Cressida pulled out a small cloth from her pocket and blotted her face. “How about we do the old Q-and-A thing?”

“Yeah, that would help, I think,” Katniss said, crossing her arms, probably to hide the shaking. She glanced over at Finnick, who gave her a thumbs up, hoping he himself didn’t look as shaky as he felt.

Cressida was back in position now. “So, Katniss. You've survived the Capitol bombing of Thirteen. How did it compare with what you experienced on the ground in Eight?”

“We were so far underground this time, there was no real danger,” said Katniss. “Thirteen's alive and well and so am - ”

But her voice cut off in a dry, squeaking noise.

“Try the line again,” Cressida said. “‘Thirteen’s alive and well and so am I.’”

Katniss took a deep breath. “Thirteen's alive and so - ”

Again she stopped. There was a moment of silence. Something about the momentary stillness made him feel like he could still smell those roses.

“Katniss, just this one line and you're done today. I promise,” said Cressida. “'Thirteen’s alive and well and so am I.'”

She swung her arms around to loosen them up, then placed them on her hips. She stayed utterly still for several long moments, as though building herself up to say that one line, then opened up - and started crying at once.

“Cut,” Cressida said quietly.

“What's wrong with her?” Plutarch said under his breath.

“She figured out how Snow's using Peeta,” Finnick said heavily.

There was something like a collective sigh of regret from the semicircle of people spread out before her. Because she knew this now. Because there was no way for her to ever unknow it. Because, beyond the military disadvantage that losing the Mockingjay might entail, she was breaking similar to how Finnick was now.

Katniss reached out and said something that sort of sounded like Haymitch's name, and he was quick to reach out to her, holding her and patting her back. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay, sweetheart.”

He sat her down on a length of broken marble pillar and kept an arm around her while she sobbed.

“I can’t do this anymore,” said Katniss.

“I know,” said Haymitch.

“All I can think of is - what he’s going to do to Peeta - because I’m the Mockingjay!”

“I know.”

“Did you see? How weird he acted? What are they - doing to him?” She was gasping for breath between sobs now. “It’s my fault!”

After she crossed the line into hysteria, Plutarch stepped forward, and Finnick caught sight of him taking a syringe of something. Immediately, Finnick was protesting, taking a step forward to stop him, but then Boggs held him back, and Finnick knew better than to resist. The needle went into Katniss arm and she was unconscious within seconds, limp against Haymitch.

They were probably going to ask him if he could give it a try, if he could do what Katniss could not, but he was suddenly doubtful of his ability to do anything again. Boggs was still holding him back, as if he might still try to do something, but Finnick wasn't doing anything at all. It all felt so pointless. Snow still had Athena. Athena was still doomed. And so was Annie and Johanna and Peeta and Calypso and Marella Maris and the victors in Four and - and - everyone, really. Dalton was wrong. He was wrong. There was no hope for anyone.

He felt significantly worse than he had felt even moments before, or maybe he had always felt this bad and just hadn’t realized. He was breaking into a sweat but felt cold at the same time, shaky and jittery and restless and tense. He usually only get these sorts of feelings in the arena, when danger was coming and it was time for flight or fight, or after nightmares, but this was something else. Something worse. And he didn’t know how to control it, or if there was any way to control it all. The coffee certainly didn’t help. He’d wanted the stuff badly at the time, but now it felt like a mistake. A stimulant seemed like the last thing he needed.

As though a thousand miles away, he could hear someone speaking to him. Asking him if he was ready to be filmed, he thought. But maybe it was something else. He couldn’t even tell who was speaking to him. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He was supposed to be able to do words. They were supposed to be what he was good at, but he couldn’t make any noise except for an odd, faint, rough croak. He heard something that was probably his name, felt a hand on his shoulder, but he immediately shook it off, feeling like even the light pressure was trying to push him down into the ground, back deeper underground where he had no desire to return.

He supposed at some point he had crossed the line into hysteria, because soon enough he felt the sharp, temporarily stinging feeling of a needle being injected into his arm, felt the numbing effects of whatever they injected him with spread through his whole body, until the world slipped away and everything went dark.


	9. IX

**IX**

 

Were they all dead?

That was the question that was on Athena’s mind during all her waking hours - and even the hours she spent in a restless sleep, infesting themselves into her nightmares. Were they all dead? Was Finnick dead? Was Katniss? Was Beetee? Was Haymitch, Plutarch, everyone in Thirteen? Were they all dead? Did the bombs kill them all? Had their warning not even done anything to save them in the end? Were they all dead? Were they all dead, were they all dead, were they all -

Athena squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears, forcing herself to block out everything else, and began whispering, “Calypso Maris. Douglas Maris. Marella Maris. Mags Flanagan. Finnick Odair - ”

But she broke as soon as she got to Finnick’s name because it just reminded her of the fact that he was in District Thirteen and District Thirteen had been bombed by the Capitol and it was possible that they were all dead, Finnick included, and that her and Peeta’s warnings that they were paying for very dearly for were all for nothing.

And they were indeed paying very dearly for what they had done. At the very least, Athena was paying very dearly for it, and she was pretty sure Peeta was too. She could hear his screams at first, more horrible and pained than they'd ever been, but he had been horribly silent as of late. Athena tried calling out to him, but he never responded. She wondered if they'd soundproofed the walls somehow to prevent them from hearing each other - or, at the very least, to prevent him from hearing her. There was, of course, the other possibility; that Peeta was not responding because he could not respond, could not hear, could not speak any longer. The possibility that Peeta was dead. She could always reason herself into believing that Peeta was still alive, though, because after all, why would Snow decide to kill Peeta but still keep her alive? Surely, she'd be dead too.

Still, all she knew was the ways she was being tortured as punishment. They used the same methods as before, but they went further than ever, putting her in more pain than ever and pushing her closer to the edge. They still covered up and fixed any visible signs on the torture she was enduring, but the pain stuck with her much longer now. This was partially due to the fact that they didn't give her any morphling unless they wanted to knock her out when she became hysterical.

And yet what hurt her and tore at her and tortured her more than anything else, Snow's best method of torture to punish her, was the fact that she did not know what happened to District Thirteen. She did not know if the Capitol was successful in their bombing. She did not know if everyone in Thirteen was dead. Finnick. Katniss. Beetee. Haymitch. Finnick. _Finnick_. All or some or none of them could be dead and she had no way of knowing. Had her and Peeta's warnings done anything at all to save them or were they all in vain? She didn't know. She had no way of knowing. There was no mention of it in any of the television programs that came on, and nobody would tell her when she asked.

One day, while she was stretched out on the mattress, aching all over from the beating she'd received and agonizing over whether or not Finnick had been blown to bits, a familiar voice called out to her.

“You're a moron, Maris.”

Athena let out a sigh, which might have been due to the relief she felt at hearing Johanna’s voice, but also might have been out of the pain she felt. She forced herself to get on her knees, crawling across the room with difficulty until she reached the wall that separated her and Johanna. Once there, it took some time and a great deal of effort to be able to speak.

“Tell me something I don't know, Mason,” Athena finally managed out.

“Peeta is, too.”

“Not fair of you,” Athena breathed out. “He’s not here to defend himself.”

“I'd say it to his face if I could,” Johanna said, which was undeniably true, so Athena didn't say anything.

They fell silent for a long time.

“I don't regret it,” Athena said finally. “If there was any chance for me to save them, I was going to take it, and I don't regret doing it.”

“I know you don't,” Johanna said, paused, and added, “You shouldn't. You were doing the right thing.”

“You just called me a moron.”

“Doing the right thing and doing the moronic thing aren't mutually exclusive. They go together more often than not.”

This was also true.

Before any of them could say anything else, however, the door to Athena's cell opened and two Peacekeepers came in. She barely had enough time to get enough information so that she knew she was being taken to make more appearances before they put their hands on her. They forced her to her feet, and her body, already weakened as it was, began screaming in pain from how rough they were being with her. The last thing Athena heard was Johanna yelling a goodbye to her before the Peacekeepers were blindfolding her and pushing her away.

Once they were finished transporting her and removed her blindfold, she found herself in the Remake Center with her prep team yet again, who made her up like they were with a ghost they were particularly afraid of, as did her stylists. When they were finished with her, she was taken to a penthouse suite where a rich man was throwing a party that she would've thought lasted all night if it wasn't for the fact that it was still dark when the Peacekeepers escorted her away. She was taken back to the Remake Center, put into new clothes and makeup and hairstyles as beautiful and elegant and sexy and stunning as the last, before being taken to a different party. After that party, she was remade again and taken to a luncheon. After that was a so-called small gathering consisting of fifty people. Then there was another party. Then another. Then another. More. More. More.

It continued on and on, everything quickly becoming a blur in Athena's mind. The places she went. The clothes she wore. The people she saw. It all felt like slightly modified versions of the same thing. She didn’t even know how they were sustaining this lifestyle in a time of war, but perhaps they were so used to this life of excess that they didn’t even know how to give it up. Maybe they felt that to give it up was to show signs that they were weakening and refused to do so. But even they must see that they wouldn’t last long like this.

Athena wouldn’t last long like this, either. It felt with every new event she was taken to, every new outfit she was put in, every new person she met, a little bit of her was crumbling and withering away. It was worse when they touched her, and all they ever seemed to do was touch her. Anywhere they liked, too. Without asking. Without even thinking about it, it seemed. They even kissed her, more than once, pressed themselves against her, left every part of her feeling dirty and tainted and wrong.

When she seemed to be on the verge of being reduced to ruins, she was being escorted to what the guards said was her final event for the time being, a dinner at President Snow’s mansion. It seemed that wherever she was, whether she was eating or socializing or anything in between, Snow always remained in her line of sight. Perhaps that was on purpose. It certainly seemed on purpose that this was where she ended off. Snow wanted her here for a very specific reason, likely because of the stunt she pulled during the broadcast. She was tense in a way she hoped was not noticeable. She had not actually seen Snow since the failed broadcast. Whatever Snow wanted her here for, she knew it would be even worse than usual. Her suspicions were confirmed when the dinner was finally coming to an end, inebriated guests began to leave, the president disappeared, and the Peacekeepers were telling her that Snow wanted to see her privately.

She was led through the mansion until the came to a stop in front of a set of plain doors. The doors slid open and she was marched inside a large, spacious room that had no furniture except a desk with two chairs and a mirror embedded in one of the walls opposite the desk. Sitting behind the desk was President Snow. Somehow, she tensed up even more, only able to hope he did not notice.

“Miss Maris,” Snow said, and even in those two words, there was a frigidness to his tone that let her know he would be particularly unforgiving today. “Take a seat.”

The Peacekeepers released her immediately. Regardless, she hovered on the spot for a moment, before drifting over to sit in the empty seat across from Snow. She didn't say anything. Waited for him to make the first move. Not that she had the power to make any countermoves, but sometimes it was nice to pretend, to go through the motions anyway. She was still in her party clothes and pretty makeup and fancy jewelry. She hated Snow seeing her like this even more than she hated him seeing her in her weakened state and tattered dressing gown with bags around her eyes. It was like she was being presented as his doll that had been prettied up to his liking.

“I believe you to be intelligent enough to deduce why you are here,” Snow said at last.

“Not to talk about the dinner, I'm guessing,” Athena said blandly. “For the record, I think you've had better.”

“Perhaps I have,” Snow said. “Perhaps that is due, at least in part, to the fact that I have been greatly preoccupied with covering for you and Mr. Mellark’s foolish, reckless actions during the broadcast.”

And there it was. At least he was getting right to the point.

“Tell me, Miss Maris,” Snow said softly, when Athena said nothing and merely thought that her actions, while potentially very foolish, had not been reckless, but methodically thought out and calculated, “do you believe betraying classified military information to enemy bases is something to be taken lightly?”

“If it's not to be taken lightly,” Athena said, “maybe it wasn't the best idea to talk about it where desperate prisoners with a stake in keeping the people of Thirteen alive could hear, Mr. President.”

“A stake in keeping the people of Thirteen alive,” Snow repeated. “And do you think you did? Do you think your silly little attempt at saving your friends succeeded? Do you think your actions made any difference at all in the end?”

And there it was, that burning question, shifting from the back burner to the forefront of her mind. Were they all dead? Had the warning saved anyone at all? Were there any survivors? She stared at Snow, searching his face for some sort of sign of the answer, but it was useless. His expression was utterly unreadable, blank. It was impossible for her to guess anything based on his face. This was likely on purpose, she knew.

“You don’t know, do you?” Snow said, when Athena remained quiet. “You don’t know. And it tears at you. But in a way, it almost does not matter to you. You acted to soothe your own conscience. Nothing more. With no regard for the disastrous consequences of your actions. No regard for whether or not it would even make a difference. You do as you like; nothing more, nothing less.

“Time and time again, I have only made very simple requests from you, Miss Maris. Do not lie to me. Convince the people and me of your loyalty to your country. Behave as expected for a woman of your status. And time and time again, you’ve refused to comply. Time and time again, you have not only rejected but insulted the very reasonable guidelines I have set out for you. You persist in trying to disturb the order of this nation. No consequences I lay out, no torture I set upon you, is enough to stop you.

“This left me in a very difficult position, as you might be able to imagine. After all, what was there left for me to use to bring you back in line?” Snow continued, as though he was still thinking out loud about it. “And then I remembered something I learned during my schooling. Are you familiar with whipping boys, Miss Maris?”

“Never heard of them,” Athena said flatly, wishing he would just get on with whatever punishment he had planned for her.

“It’s a fascinating subject. You see, in times of old, people were governed not by presidents, but by a bloodline of kings and queens, rulers believed to be appointed by some higher power. This presented a slight problem when it came time to discipline their sons, the princes who would in time become kings. Typically, children who broke the rules would simply be beaten into obedience, but those rules couldn’t be applied to the children of kings. After all, they were believed to be anointed, blessed beings - how could you beat someone chosen by a higher power to rule over you one day? You can see how this proved to be a great problem.

“Until one day, a truly ingenious idea was invented. They would bring in another boy to be raised with the young prince. They would be raised side by side, become childhood friends, close enough for the prince to develop a strong sense of empathy for the boy. These boys were called whipping boys, because whenever the prince misbehaved, they would punish not him, but his friend. They would hurt the whipping boy in the prince’s place, and the prince would feel so guilty that his friend was being punished for something he did that he would never repeat of his actions again.”

Athena was silent as she took this in, fear already coursing through her. It was clear that he was going to use some sort of whipping boy to bring her in line, but who would it be? Johanna or Peeta or both? She knew she should never think that it couldn’t get worse for them, but she really didn’t understand what he could do to them that hadn’t been done already; especially to Peeta, whose screams were so much more tortured these days...

“I imagine you can see the brilliance in something like this. So simple, yet so effective,” Snow was saying. “I realized this was the best solution in how to deal with you. Perhaps the only solution. After all, it’s clear that threat and even torture alone is not enough to tame you. You are hurting, and you are very frightened, it grows by the day, but not in the way you need to be to fall in line. You, like much of Panem now, need a very physical reminder of how much worse things can be when you disobey.”

“You can't kill us all, you know,” Athena said calmly. “Johanna was right, you can't put everyone in the arena.”

“Why, I don’t need to, Miss Maris,” Snow smiled, like she was missing the point and it amused him. “All I need is to make you believe that I could, if I so chose. All I need is to make you believe that I could make the very worst come to pass, if I so chose. If you push me to that point. And you have. I want you to look at what you have done. I want you to look at what has come to pass because of it. And understand that this is all your doing.”

Snow’s eyes shifted from her to somewhere behind her. Tentatively, she glanced behind her to follow his gaze - and her heart dropped to the region of her stomach, her heart stopping and her chest constricting painfully. What she had thought was a mirror was actually a window, whose tint had been adjusted so she could actually see through it. In the other side of a window was a room that was relatively blank, except for the machines that were similar to the ones they used to electrocute her, and two other people. Athena was on her feet in an instant. The Peacekeepers did not try to stop her, but even if they had, Athena expected that this time, they would not have been successful. Even seven inch heels could not slow her down, tearing across the room to them. To her mother and sister.

She was at the window within moments, pressing her palms flat against the glass. They hurried forward to do the same, wide, frightened eyes glued on her. They were hooked up the machines, dressed in white dressing gowns similar to the one she always wore in her cell. They looked terrified, but otherwise in good health.

“Mom,” she whispered, her voice weak. “Calypso.”

They said something back to her that she couldn’t quite make out, but from the movement of their lips, it seemed like it was her name. She would have felt dizzying relief to be seeing them again when she had been certain she would die without ever seeing their faces again, but she was too distracted by her confusion and terror at the fact that they were in the Capitol at all.

Not wanting to look away from them for a moment, as though they might disappear, Athena cried out over her shoulder, “How long have you had them here?”

“They were detained the same night you were,” Snow said, in a calm, even voice that made her want to attack him all over again. “A mere few hours after the fact.”

“You never told me,” she said, hatred and fury and horror coming in tidal waves.

“You never asked,” Snow replied. “I suppose you were foolish enough to believe they might be safe in Four.”

A new emotion was bubbling up inside her now, making the tidal wave that was tearing her apart even worse. Shame. She should have known. She should have known better. Was it wishful thinking that made her think that they were out of Snow’s grasp? Or was it the fact that she thought that if he had them, he would have told her right away, been using them as a way of torturing her this whole time? But of course, she should have known better. That wasn’t quite Snow’s style. He said it himself. He wanted only to make her believe that he could make the very worst come to pass. If he wanted. If he felt she had pushed him to it. She should have known. She should have known. She should have known.

She glanced over her shoulder momentarily, just long enough to ask, “Who else? Who else do you have? Annie, Roman, the other victors, Hudson, what about them? Who else do you have here?”

Snow merely stared at her for a moment, before saying in a measured voice, “All the victors of District Four have been detained and taken in for questioning. In the district. Not here.”

All the victors. Hudson was free, but all the victors had been arrested. Annie, Roman, Lillian, Noah, Murphy. Maybe even Casper. They were all in prison, facing who knew what sort of treatment. And they had never done anything wrong except know Athena Maris, rebel and traitor to the Capitol. All of them whipping boys, along with her mother and Calypso. Her mother and Calypso... they were here... they were _here_... in the very hell she had tried so hard to make sure they never had to endure... she turned to look at them again, and her heart constricted so painfully she did not know how her body could handle it. She struggled to hold back the tears springing in her eyes. She had to try to be strong for them. They seemed so scared. She was the one who was supposed to look out for them. She was the one who was supposed to keep them safe. She knew, in some part of her mind, that it was useless, but she had to try. For them, she had to try.

“ What have you been doing to them?” Athena said, as steadily as she could.

“Nothing at all,” Snow replied calmly. “They’ve been treated as honoured guests. Slept in fine quarters in the Training Center - the very quarters you slept in during your trips to the Capitol. Given wonderful, full meals. They were even given a few opportunities to explore the city. No harm came to them. It’s exactly as I said, Miss Maris. As you watch what happens next, it’s important you remember that this was all your doing. Nobody else’s.”

At that moment, doctors walked into the room, approaching the imposing-looking machines. Athena was already unraveling, struggling to keep it together. She knew what would happen next when the doctors activated those machines. She was desperate to stop it, any way she could.

She turned to face Snow, saying, desperation in every word that left her mouth, her voice breaking, spreading her hands as though in surrender, “Please. Please. They have nothing to do with any of this. Please, I’ll do anything you want, just leave them out of this. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll do anything you ask to. I’ll convince you. I’ll convince everyone. I’ll be so convincing you’ll never doubt me again, no one will. Just please, please don’t hurt them. Don’t hurt them - just - just please - I’ll do anything you want - ”

“Yes,” he said, “yes, you will. But first, you will learn.”

She glanced behind her. The doctors were securing the patches on their skin and moving onto twiddling the dials on the machine.

“ _Please!_ ” she burst out, turning back to Snow, desperation clawing at her throat. “Please! Do what you want to me, but leave them out of this! They have nothing to do with what I’ve done, they have nothing to do with this war. They didn’t do anything wrong. I’ll do anything you want - please, just - they’re innocent, _please!_ ”

“Yes, I know,” Snow said with a smile. “That's the point.”

At that moment, the doctors switched on the machine, and Athena whipped around as the sound of a horrible, tortured scream rent through the air. Her mother and Calypso had both dropped to the floor, twitching and convulsing and shrieking in pain as electric shocks were sent through their bodies. The sound pierced through Athena’s heart like knives; she’d never heard them in so much pain before...

“Mom! Calypso!” Athena cried, rushing forward until her palms were pressed flat against the glass again.

They could do nothing but scream louder as they were electrocuted. Athena’s composure shattered. When she faced Snow again, she was sobbing. She could not bring herself to care. All she cared about was that her mother and sister were here, in the Capitol, the one placed she never wanted them anywhere near, and they were being tortured, and it was her fault, it was her fault, she needed to stop it.

“Please!” she cried out between sobs. “Please, please - I’ll do anything you want - _anything_ \- just please - please - leave them alone - ” a particularly loud, piercing shriek from Calypso sounded at that point, and Athena fell apart even more. “ _Please!_ Please, you’ve made your point, you’ve made your point, nothing like that will ever happen again, _ever_ , please, just - ”

“Oh, I am confident it won’t,” said Snow. “But I’m not sure you’ve truly learnt your lesson quite yet.”

Her mother let out a terrible cry of pain Athena had not even known she was capable of making, and she gave up on Snow. She turned back to her mother and sister, who were now convulsing violently as the electric shocks ran through their body. She cried out their names over and over, until soon she realized she was screaming along with them, utterly hysterical. She saw blood on her knuckles and the glass and realize she was pounding on it with her fists, trying to break it down, but it was too thick to break. She tried over and over again regardless, pounding against the glass so hard her knuckles hurt, screaming their names, never loud enough to drown out their own screams of pain, until the Peacekeepers were grabbing her around the waist, blindfolding her, and dragging her, kicking and screaming and struggling, out of the room, her mother and sister’s screams ringing horribly in her ears, the sight of them twitching on the ground flashing vividly in her mind. Her worst nightmares come to life. Even as she was taken back to her cell, she never stopped screaming and crying, past the point where calming down was even a possibility.

There was no chance to recover or even process what had just occurred when she was back in her cell, because Philo and the doctors and a few more Peacekeepers were waiting for her when she returned. Immediately, not even bothering to try and get her into a coherent state, they strapped her down, hooked her up to the patches that were used to burn her, and began torturing and interrogating her. She was not silent, the way she always was, but she was still crying hysterically and shrieking her mother’s and Calypso’s names in a progressively less coherent manner, so that they didn’t get any information out of her regardless. The fact that they were burning her to the point where it felt like her skin was melting off only made things worse. In the end, Philo gave up on interrogating her, but not before getting one of the Peacekeepers to hit her so hard that everything went black.

When she woke up again, her throat felt raw. She knew, even without trying to speak, that she didn’t have much of a voice left. She was lying on her thin mattress, back in her thin dressing gown, her makeup and jewelry and pretty clothes gone, save for the necklace with its blue spinel pendant and gold flame-patterned ring. Her skin still felt like it was on fire from the torture she'd endured, but there were no burn marks on her skin. She thought about the fear on her mother and sister’s faces, thought about the way they convulsed on the floor, thought about those terrible, terrible screams, and felt she was burning up on the inside, too.

She flinched at what felt like a hand on her stomach, but looked down and saw nothing there. She could feel it everywhere, though, hands and even surgically altered lips on her body as though they owned her, making her feel dirty and tainted and like her body was not hers. She felt nauseous. The ghosts of the touches of Capitol socialites seemed to press down on every part of her. Her body was a valued thing in the Capitol, something many people here would pay top dollar to have even for one night; it seemed with every passing night, it became a little more available for them to have. Snow was slowly but surely following through on the threats he made about forcing her to sell her body.

And yet still he was holding back. He was putting certain restrictions on what they could do to her, drawing a line in the sand at a certain point, despite the fact that these socialites were already having their way with her in every way but one, so what difference did that line make? Athena had always been curious about that, had always wondered why Snow had never finally just went through with his threats and started selling her body. She thought she was starting to understand why, though. She thought about his words earlier: _“You, like much of Panem now, need a very physical reminder of how much worse things can be when you disobey... all I need is to make you believe that I could make the very worst come to pass, if I so chose. If you push me to that point...”_

It wasn't even entirely about forcing her to sell her body. It was the fact that he had the power to do it, if he so chose; a power he did not want to relinquish. There were a great many things Athena would do, that Snow could make her do, to ensure that Snow never went through with that threat. Snow recognized this and seemed bent on using it to his advantage as long as he possibly could. It was a reminder of the power he had over her. And a reminder that things could always become worse. That he could make them worse.

Things could always become worse. They could always become worse. They could become worse and they always did become worse and they never became better, because she was here and so was her mother and sister and Peeta and Johanna and the other victors were all being detained in District Four and Finnick and everyone in Thirteen might have blown into pieces and she still did not know, and she could still feel Capitol socialites’ horrible, retched touches on her skin. She thought about the things they had done to her, the things they'd said they wanted to her, all the ways it could become worse. She thought about herself alone in dark rooms with people who had made the highest bid or won Snow's favour, and gave a shudder that turned into sob, and soon she was dissolving into tears all over again. She wept for herself, and for Finnick too, because he had dealt with this and far worse for ten years. By the time her sobs finally came to a shaky stop, it felt like she had no tears left in her.

That was when the screams started. First it was Johanna, sounding like the scream was being ripped from her throat against her will, the sound hoarse and gravelly and tortured. Athena had no time to do anything to react except bolt upright, her whole body tense, and cry out her name, before the sounds of Peeta's screams joined Johanna. They were torturing them both again, even worse than usual, from the sounds of their screams. She could do nothing, nothing at all, except for listen to it.

Unable to stand it, her chest closing in on itself painfully and something like panic building up inside her, she brought her hands to her ears, though it did little to block out the sound, closed her eyes, and began to whisper, “Johanna Mason. Peeta Mellark. Katniss Everdeen. Beetee Laitier. Finnick Odair. Finnick - Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair. Douglas Maris. Marella Maris. Cal -”

At that moment, she was cut off by a piercing scream that joined Johanna's and Peeta's. Her heart stopped and her blood ran cold, because she knew exactly who it was.

“Calypso,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Calypso’s screams were soon joined by the agonized screams of her mother. The noises seemed to be coming from somewhere across from her. Their screams mingled in with Peeta's and Johanna's, and through the terror she felt, she understood what was going on. She thought that Philo had stopped interrogating her out of sheer annoyance from her incessant, hysterical screaming and shouting and crying, realizing he would never get anything coherent out of her while she was like this. She saw now that he stopped because they had a much better method of torture planned out to break her. Listening to the people she cared about endure some of the worst they had to offer.

And it was. It was worse the the burns. Worse than the shocks. Worse than everything. Listening to them being tortured. Knowing that it was her fault. Knowing she could do nothing to stop it. There was no drowning it out, no escaping it, even as she squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears, sobs she didn't even know she had left in her body wracking it. This, she imagined, was what Finnick and Katniss had gone through when they had been forced to listen to the jabberjays in the arena. Except this lasted much, much longer than an hour. And it was all real, every single cry of pain.

Eventually, she thought she could hear more screams - Finnick's, Annie's, Mags’, her father’s, Hudson's, Sirena’s, Katniss’, Beetee's, more. She couldn't tell if it was her mind torturing her too or if they were broadcasting it to her cell, and if it was the latter, whether it was real or fabricated. It didn't really even matter, though, whether it was real or not. It tore her apart and destroyed her all the same. When she became aware of a pain in her head, she realized she was banging it against the ground. Nobody came to sedate her or hold her down, perhaps to prolong how long she was exposed to these horrible sounds, and she didn’t stop, hoping she could knock herself out before the screams became too much.

It could become worse. It could always become worse. And Snow was teaching her exactly what worse meant.


	10. X

**X**

 

It took some time for Finnick to sleep off the sedative with which he had been injected. Even as the effects of the sedative began to wear off, he still floated in and out of consciousness, until it became impossible to tell what was dream and what was reality. Neither provided him any relief, so he supposed it didn't matter. He supposed it'd make no difference at all if this was how he spent the rest of his life. At one point, he blinked and Athena was sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed. She seemed perfectly healthy at first, but the longer he looked at her, the more tired and weak and sickly she looked. He sat up, a million questions about to spill out of his mouth about how she got here and if she was okay and more, but something about the way she looked stopped him. Questions could come later.

She looked at him hesitantly, before saying, slowly, cautiously, “Finnick, can I stay here with you for the night?”

Suddenly, it became impossible for him to tell whether they were in District Thirteen’s hospital wing or the Capitol or the tribute train. It didn’t matter. She was here and she wanted to be with him and Finnick would never tell her no.

The words came to him even more naturally than they had the first time. “Yes. Of course. Come here.”

He shifted over to make room for her, and she slipped under the covers beside him. He wrapped an arm around her, breathing her in, savouring the feeling of her warm, soft skin. He hadn't realized just how much he'd ached to touch her, to just be close to her, until now. The feeling of fullness and warmth her close proximity brought made him realize how cold he had been before. He brought his lips to her shoulders, kissing along them gently.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much.”

She turned to look at him, whispering the words back, and his heart sunk. Her health and strength had deteriorated so much since she had appeared on his bed. He wanted to say something - he didn't know what; just anything that might make her better - but at that moment, his Aunt Marena was bursting into sight, grabbing onto him and forcing him to sit upright, clutching his shoulders, wild-eyed. He wanted to protest at being all but literally ripped away from Athena, but the sight of his aunt stopped him. It had been so long since he'd seen Aunt Marena alive... even longer since he'd seen her sober, which she seemed to be now. She had all the symptoms of sudden withdrawals of alcohol after developing an addiction; her skin was slightly yellow and she had an almost shrunken appearance to her from the amount of weight she’d lost.

“Aunt - ?” he said, but didn’t even get the chance to finish saying her name.

“Finnick!” she said, and something about her voice was odd, almost distorted, as though it was mingling in with a voice much lower in pitch than hers. “Finnick! District Four - going to District Four - get back to District Four! GO BACK!”

She screamed the last part, but her voice was not her own, several octaves lower. It jolted Finnick back into consciousness, bolting upright. He looked around him. He was still in the hospital in Thirteen. Aunt Marena was not here, because she was dead. Athena was not here either, because she was in the Capitol, facing unspeakable torture, where she would eventually meet the same fate as his aunt. And he was here. The disappointment and pain at being brought back to reality in such a way was so great it almost overwhelmed him entirely. Before it got the chance, he noticed Haymitch sitting at his bedside.

“Did I wake you?” Haymitch said mildly.

“What do you want, Haymitch?” Finnick said flatly. He noticed a new length of rope that had been left for him, picked it up, and began tying and untying promptly, trying to reign in his emotions.

“They have a new mission planned,” Haymitch. “They leave in four days. Figured this particular mission might be of interest to you.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because they’re going to District Four,” he said. Finnick’s hands froze in the middle of tying a gunner’s knot, his head snapping up to look at Haymitch, who smirked at this reaction. “Yeah, now I’ve got your attention, haven’t I?”

“How? Why? Why now?”

“They’re still having trouble getting any steady communication with Four,” said Haymitch. “Their best option is to touch base physically and figure out a solution from there. I know one of the first things you wanted to do was get back to Four. I figured you’d want to know before it was too late. Do with that information what you will.”

With that, Haymitch got up and strolled away. Finnick was silent for a moment, thinking this all over. They were going to District Four. In three days. He needed to be with them when they left. Mentally disoriented or not, he had to go. He had to see what was happening in his home and to his people for himself. He sat up straighter, swinging his legs off the bed, but before he could get up and leave, Doctor Silver noticed him and headed straight towards him.

“Finnick!” he said. “Good to see you awake.” He sat down in the chair next to him. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Finnick said at once. “Fine. I needed that time to rest and calm back down. I feel good now.”

“Yeah?” said Doctor Silver. “How have you been since the air raid? How do you feel about that - especially since you had to see the damages above ground? Do you still feel like you’re in danger?”

“No,” Finnick replied, immediately recognizing the type of answers he ought to be giving if he wanted to be discharged quickly. “We were so deep underground that I knew nothing really bad was going to happen to us. And it’s over now. I feel safe. Totally safe.”

It took ages of questioning and answering along this line for Doctor Silver to finally be convinced of his relative mental stability and discharge him, informing him that his schedule had been cleared so he could spend the rest of the day resting. Immediately after he was changed, however, Finnick, instead of resting, went straight to Command.

Plutarch, Coin, and Boggs were all there, along with several other officials. They all stared at him when he walked in, falling silent. Clearly, people did not come to Command unless summoned. It was possible he would come to regret this, but if he ended up going to District Four in four days, he didn’t particularly care, either.

The atmosphere became rather tense and awkward after his appearance, but Plutarch gave a rather brave attempt of moving past it, saying, “Finnick. Good to see you on your feet again. Rest well?”

“Great, thanks,” Finnick replied, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to be polite.

“What brings you here, then?” asked Plutarch.

“I want to come on the mission to District Four.”

If possible, the room became even more tense and silent.

“Who told you about that?” Coin said, her voice calm but sharp.

“Had a hunch,” Finnick said vaguely, not wanting to rat out Haymitch, especially not after he’d done him the favour of telling him about this mission that they had evidently wanted to keep from him, something that could very well get him in hot water with Coin and the government. “Those are usually right. I also have a hunch that it would be beneficial for all of us if I was part of the task force that went.”

“Soldier Odair, a lot of organization goes into planning and executing these missions,” said Coin. “We spent nearly two weeks weighing our options to decide whether this was the optimal one. Even one extra variable in the equation can throw everything off.”

“Two weeks,” he said. “Two weeks debating this and no one consulted me?”

“We are under no obligation to tell you of our every move, Soldier Odair,” Coin said loftily.

“District Four is different,” he said.

“Why? Because it’s your home?”

“Yes,” Finnick said simply, knowing exactly how he was going to plead his case. “Yes, because it’s my home. Because I’m the only one in this district who _can_ call it my home. Not only that - how many people here have actually been to District Four? And I don’t mean sent camera crews in or flown over it or seen it on television or in pictures or looked at it in maps. I mean actually been there, physically.”

There was silence at these words. He knew he as good as had them.

“That leaves only me who’s actually been there. And it also leaves me as the only person who knows District Four - really knows it, because there’s only so much cameras and maps will show you. But me? I know everything about the place. I know the people, I know how they operate, I know how things work, I know where to find anything and everything. I know things even your Capitol cameras never picked up on,” he said, looking at Plutarch pointedly at that. “If you want a successful mission in District Four, it seems like the best person to go to is the only expert you have on the district.”

There was silence at these words. This was probably no way to speak to a president, but if they weren’t dismissing him immediately and were actually considering his words, he had to be doing something right.

“If I may, Madam President,” Plutarch said mildly, “it would make an excellent propo. Finnick Odair in his home, with his people, standing with the rebellion, fighting the good fight. I’m sure Cressida and her crew could do something truly incredible with that.”

For a long time, Coin just stared at him, before saying to the woman three seats to the left of her, “Bring up Soldier Odair’s records.”

The woman punched in a few codes, pressed some buttons, and on a screen that typically displayed maps and war plans was a small photo of him and data tables and spreadsheets that were meaningless to him, but seemed to signify a lot to everyone gathered at the table.

“He has mainly been adhering to his schedule,” Plutarch pointed out. “Shows promise. He can follow orders; I’m sure that’s a relief to know on the field.”

“Also a lot of relapses,” Boggs pointed out.

“Nowhere to go but up, then,” Plutarch said.

 _Don’t underestimate me,_ Finnick thought, but knew it was not the right time to say it out loud.

Everyone had different opinions on whether or not he should go(he noted, pleased, that more people were approving than disapproving). In the end, though, it was obvious that it all came down to what Coin had to say on the matter, so Finnick merely waited silently for her verdict.

“The hovercraft leaves at ten o’clock in four days,” Coin said at last, grey eyes settling on him. “If you can prove to us and your doctors by that point that you are ready for such a mission, you will be given clearance to join the task force. If not, you stay here. No exceptions or further discussion.”

“Yes, President Coin,” he said at once. “Thank you.”

“You’re dismissed,” she said with a nod, and knowing better than to test his luck, he turned around and walked out of Command before she could change her mind, grinning to himself as soon as he was out of the room.

He had been so focused on getting to Command that he hadn't even thought about sleep, but he suddenly felt exhausted. Perhaps Doctor Silver had had the right idea, ordering him to rest. He all but collapsed into bed when he reached his bunk, chased into and out of fitful dreams of his parents and Aunt Marena and Mags and Annie and Athena, Athena everywhere, her eyes and her smile and her hair and her scent and her voice and the way she screamed Peeta's name when they knocked him out and her cry of pain when they got to her too and her blood on the tiles and her life in Snow's hands -

He was jolted back into consciousness for good early in the morning. He reached for his rope and tied and untied knots until his hands were sore but steady again. He then got up and threw himself into the day's schedule with a vengeance. He made sure he did everything on his schedule exactly on time and perfectly. It sort of felt like the months spent training extra hard before he volunteered for the first time, making sure he could prove to himself and everyone else that he was the best. Both times, he was training for his home. To get back to it. And maybe this time, he could help it. The thought was the only thing that kept him going when each task drained him and he felt helplessness and grief and guilt and anxiety beginning to build up inside him again.

The day included three visits to Doctor Silver. Each time, Finnick made a great show of being perfectly healthy and adjusted and stable. Doctor Silver scrutinized him closely, clearly trying to figure out if he was only pretending to be okay so he could go to District Four, but Finnick put on such a good act he had him convinced. He even had himself convinced, until the day was over and he was alone in his compartment with all the things he'd seen and done. He cried his way out of terrible, vivid nightmares of his parents and his aunt and Mags, laced with faint sounds of Athena's screams for him to help her as she was tortured, loud enough for him to hear, never loud enough for him to find and save her. He tied knots until the tears were gone and the new day had begun. The feeling of rope burn between his fingers was beginning to feel almost pleasant. With that thought in mind, he made himself rise and began the cycle anew.

Some parts of the day were better than others. He liked meals, because he got to talk to Dalton. He liked training, because even though it took him some time to get back into the swing of things in terms of vigorous training, he liked the chance to talk to Beetee and to use the tridents that he was developing for him(the original trident he was making for him still wasn't completely finished, but in the meanwhile, if he did go on this mission to Four, he'd use another trident Beetee had designed; it didn't have quite as many complex gadgets and features as the original trident, but it was still functional and felt like it was made for Finnick to use, so he was content with it). He also liked that training made it hard to give into all the thoughts that seemed determined to get him to surrender to misery; in fact, training made it hard to think at all. Most of the time now, that was a good thing. During the thirty minutes of free time before dinner that was meant for self-reflection, Finnick went to see Katniss; she'd been discharged from the hospital the same day as him, but she relapsed so often that she was spending almost all her time there. She had been unaware of the planned mission to District Four until he told her about it; apparently, nobody had asked her to do any more Mockingjay duties since that day they were released from the bunker. Finnick, looking at Katniss as she layed in bed, alternating between tying weak knots and ones that were so tight they took far too long to undo, privately thought that this was a good thing.

The rest of his day was bleak and draining at best, and the nights were unbearable as always, but those brighter moments kept him going, as did the constant reminder that if he could get through this, he could see his home again. The mere thought of being above ground, setting foot in District Four, seeing his people, seeing the ocean, was so sweet that he was willing to endure a great deal to see it become a reality. By the middle of the third day, they removed the wristband that labelled him as mentally disoriented, officially marking him as a perfectly stable, mentally oriented member of society - though, he was still expected to have frequent meetings with Doctor Silver. Sometimes he almost didn't mind those, though; his head doctor sometimes was right on the mark, even if he was usually out of his depth when it came to dealing with Finnick. And besides, the removal of the bracelet felt like something close to a confirmation that he was going to Four, and there was little that could ruin that for him.

The morning of the mission found Finnick being examined thoroughly, both by his doctors and by the military(though the latter wasn't quite as thorough as it would be if he was taking the test to be inducted in the military. For this mission, he wasn't authorized for combat; his purpose would be to guide them through District Four and be filmed for propos). It was only when he passed both tests with flying colors that he was given the black military uniform to don and put in enough makeup to cover the bags beneath his eyes.

Down in Special Defense, Beetee gave him several items of protection to go with his uniform; since there was no communication with District Four, even though they were fairly certain the situation was not dire, nobody was certain of what they would be entering, so many precautions were being taken. There was a helmet of some interwoven material that fit close to his head, the material supple like fabric and able to be drawn back like a hood if he didn’t want to wear it over his head all the time; a vest to reinforce protection over vital organs; a small white earpiece that attached to his collar with a wire; and a mask that Beetee secured to his belt that was for protection against gas attacks.

“If you see people dropping for reasons you can’t quickly explain, put this on immediately,” he told him.

Finally, Beetee gave him the trident he’d be using. “Both President Coin and Commander Boggs have insisted that the time won’t come where you’ll need it. All the same, when the time comes, if you find otherwise - ” Beetee’s expression was relatively serious, but there was a glint in his eyes that could only be described as mischievous - “make sure you aim carefully.”

“Thanks, Beetee,” Finnick said with a grin.

When he was in the Airborne Division and mounting one of the smaller hovercrafts with the rest of the squad, though, he tried to seem a little more serious. Though he was so thrilled and so relieved to be going back to Four, he knew he ought to be conducting himself in a stoic manner. Plutarch, on the other hand, made no effort to hide his ecstasy; he was practically buzzing with excitement.

“This is good,” he said, from his seat across from Finnick on the hovercraft, after there was a warning of the upcoming takeoff and everyone strapped themselves into their seats. “This is absolutely wonderful. President Coin wasn’t so sure at first, but eventually she could see - especially after your rapid improvement - the benefits of this. To finally have you as part of the war effort - officially, I mean - playing the part you were meant to play. And I already know Cressida and her crew will whip up something fantastic with it,” he nodded at the group in question, who were talking quietly with each other. “Your propos have already had such an effect - everyone's had.”

He took a moment to update Finnick on the progress the rebels had made. Apparently, after seeing the propos District Thirteen put out, several districts, where the rebels had far from a strong influence, began to rally. They had actually taken Three and Eleven, the latter particularly crucial since it was Panem's main supplier of food, and have made inroads in several other districts as well. Plutarch didn't seem particularly concerned about the air raid attack or the way it would affect the rebel cause in other districts; apparently, from what they could tell, hearing about the Capitol's plan to attack what was becoming known as the rebel base, the home of the revolution, only made districts want to fight harder.

“All we really need is to send out a message to the districts,” Plutarch told him. “That we're still alive and fighting. Something that encourages them to do the same. Given our first attempt...” Plutarch cleared his throat awkwardly, and the atmosphere became distinctly awkward and tense, since their first attempt to send out a message after the bombings had ended in both Finnick and Katniss having meltdowns and needing to be sedated. “Well. We're hoping this is something to get us up and running with the propos again.”

Plutarch also explained, in a little more detail, what the plan to win the war actually was. The Capitol, regardless of how its all-powerful presentation made it seem, was entirely dependent on the districts for essentially everything; without the districts to lift it up, it wouldn't be long before it crumbled. As such, the plan was to take control of each of the districts, one by one, thus cutting off the Capitol's supply chain. They would end with District Two, as it was the only district that remained loyal to the Capitol due to the fact that it had always received the best treatment from the Capitol, meaning it would be the most difficult district to take. From there, they would invade the Capitol itself, which would be no small task, but doable if the city had no support and was outnumbered.

“And after that?” Finnick asked. “What happens after we win? Who runs the government?”

“Everyone,” said Plutarch. “We’re going to form of a republic where people of each district and the Capitol can elect a representative to be their voice in a centralized government. I know it sounds outlandish to you now,” he added, evidently noticing the suspicious look on Finnick’s face, “but it’s been done before. If our ancestors could do it, there’s no reason why we can’t too.”

But Finnick didn’t think that their ancestors were people to brag about or model themselves after. After all, they were the ones who fought all those wars and all but destroyed the planet, leaving their descendants the smoking remains. Leaving their descendants in this state. It didn’t seem much like they cared about who they were hurting with their actions anymore than the Capitol did. But even a government inspired by their reckless, violent ancestors had to be better than the government they had now.

“And I guess the next Hunger Games is gonna be real special if we lose,” Finnick said finally.

An ironic sort of smile stretched across Plutarch’s lips at that. “Yes, I suspect so. And speaking of which - ” he took a vial from his vest, shaking a few deep violet pills free, before holding them out to Finnick - “here. You won’t need these today unless something goes terribly, terribly wrong, but it’s best I give them to you now anyway. Just in case. Or for future missions, if you serve in more in the future. We named them nightlock in Katniss’ honour. The rebels can’t afford for any of us to become prisoners now, I’m afraid. But I promise it will be completely painless, should it ever come to that.”

He took hold of the capsules, holding them in his palm, staring at them. Somehow, they reminded him of Athena. He wondered what would have happened if she had access to pills like these. If she would be better off, or if they would have found them and taken them away from her and left her in the exact same position anyway.

He was not afraid about what the pills would do if he swallowed them. More afraid of what would happen if he could not reach them in time when he needed them.

He was at a loss as to where he should put them, but then Plutarch tapped a point on his arm, just below his shoulder, and Finnick looked over at the same spot on his own arm to see a tiny pocket that both concealed and secured the little pills. Even if his hands were tied, he could easily lean over and bite it free. If he was desperate enough. It wasn’t hard to believe that he might be, one day.

“But it won’t come to that,” Boggs said firmly from beside Plutarch. “We’re not sure of the precise conditions of Four, but we’re expecting smooth sailings for this mission. This isn’t just reconnaissance; this is build-up to another mission, a decoy we’ll use to keep the Capitol distracted for the time being.”

“What mission?” Finnick asked, but Boggs didn’t answer, lowering his gaze. Finnick couldn’t really be surprised that they were keeping the information from him.

With the exception of Cressida and her crew talking in whispers, the rest of the hovercraft ride was had in silence. There was an itching feeling in his hands that he realized was because he didn’t have a rope to use to keep them busy. Deciding that this was not a good situation to ask for one, Finnick kept his eyes on the clouds as they skimmed by and they came closer and closer to Four. Now that the flurry of activity that led up to him actually getting to this hovercraft was over, he only now got the chance to really think about what he would be stepping into when they landed. District Four was his home, certainly, but for all he knew, it might have transformed into a whole new world since he left the day of the Reaping all those weeks (weeks that felt like months, weeks that felt like years, but still weeks) ago; the evidence certainly seemed to point to it, what with news of Mayor Trenton's death and, from what they could tell, full scale uprisings erupting in the district. Maybe his home had turned into something he would not recognize. Somewhere he would not belong. Somewhere he could not help.

But as the hovercraft began to make a slow, spiralling descent, Finnick looked out the window and thought he could recognize the district he saw. He could recognize the neighbourhoods, including his and Athena's old one and Victor's Village, the Justice Building, the marketplace, the cliffs overlooking the sea, more. They all were tiny at this height, even the lighthouse. The only exception was the ocean. Even from this height, it seemed as vast and endless as ever, and it was only getting bigger and bigger as they descended. Finnick kept his eyes glued to it, and felt something in him shift; felt the unrest inside him settle just slightly.

When they at last landed in Victor's Village, Plutarch and a number of others stayed in the hovercraft, where they would monitor them from the sky and give them live feedback from their earpieces, while Finnick, Boggs, Gale, Cressida and her crew, and a few other soldiers stepped out of the hovercraft. Finnick was desperate to get out, but made himself wait patiently until the others had already stepped out onto the ground before doing the same himself.

It couldn’t have been more different from Thirteen. Even the ground beneath his feet felt different. So did the air he was breathing; not unpleasant and muggy, but fresh and crisp and tinged with seaspray as always. As the hovercraft took off into the air again, Finnick turned on the spot, staring all around him. Victor’s Village looked the same as always, though it was much more still; maybe because it lacked the sight of Noah and Murphy drinking and wrestling on their lawn while Roman and Casper watched and laughed and Lillian reading on her front porch and Mags gardening while Annie sang songs and helped and Penelope and Talisa walking close together and Athena and Calypso racing each other to their house while Marella Maris lingered behind, walking at a leisurely pace, shaking her head but smiling at her sprinting children and -

Finnick let out a rather strangled sound. The memories that had at first felt pleasant now felt like something haunting him, pressing down on him, joined by thoughts of his parents and his aunt and Siren and more, far too many more... had there always been so many ghosts wandering about here? How did he ever stand it?

His hands ached for his rope again, so he balled them into fists, digging his nails into his palm. He closed his eyes, just for a split second, made himself breathe in and out slowly and deeply. Even from here, he could hear the crash of the waves against the shore. In his mind’s eye, he could see Annie sitting by the shore, her socks and shoes off and pant legs rolled up as the tide came in and soaked her to her ankles. He could see Mags, with her messy, wispy hair and her kind smile and her bark-life laughter. He could see Athena. He could see her everywhere. Striding through the district, padding through his house with hastily tied back hair, smiling at him sleepily as they woke up beside each other. He could hear musical laughter that was as soothing as the sound of the tides, a voice that could bring him back down almost with ease. He could see careful, precise, methodical hands bringing vibrant pieces of art to life. He could feel those same, familiar, warm hands all over his skin, carefully, lovingly drawing pleasure out of him like him feeling so good, something he hadn’t even thought was possible, was the most natural thing in the world.

The tiniest of smiles spread across his face. For once, the happiness and the love he felt outweighed the pain and the guilt. Yes, that was how.

“All clear,” came Plutarch’s voice right in Finnick’s ear, making him jump. He resisted the urge to rip out the earpiece with difficulty. “No sign of alarms or anything being triggered by our presence, and still no signs of any immediate danger. We’ll tell you what places to steer clear from them - issues with Peacekeepers and the like.”

“Copy that,” said Boggs. “Thank you, Soldier Heavensbee.”

“Finnick,” said Cressida suddenly, “where are we? Can you tell us about where we are?”

Finnick looked around to see the cameras were already rolling.

“Don’t worry,” Cressida said, perhaps seeing that he was a little thrown at the fact that they were filming already. “This is your home. Just tell us about it. Tell us where we are.”

Finnick nodded, hesitated just slightly, before saying, “We’re in District Four. My home. We’re in Victor’s Village now, where I lived.” He pointed at the house across from him. “I used to live in that one.”

“Can we see it?” said Cressida.

Nobody protested going inside, so Finnick led the way up the path to his front door. He hesitated at the door. He didn’t have his key with him. He didn’t even know where it was. Somewhere inside, probably. On the day of the Reaping, he had left this house not expecting to ever return, so he hadn’t really bothered to keep track of his key. He managed to pick the lock easily enough, though, and soon they were inside. He shuffled across the hall slowly, looking around, expecting some major difference, but he found none; certainly, the neglect that came from being empty for so long was showing in the very thin layer of dust that had accumulated on much of the furniture and floors, but otherwise, it looked the same. Finnick gave them a brief tour of the place, showing them different parts of the house. Though he had lived here for ten years, he could not escape the feeling that he was wandering through a place he had been to perhaps once years and years ago, somewhere he did not belong anymore.

He lingered when they reached his bedroom, though. Almost instinctively, his feet shuffled along until they reached his dresser, opening up one of the drawers that was empty except for one thing. The ring was still there and in tact, which was a relief; for some reason, a part of him had been expecting it to be gone. He wouldn’t be surprised if the place had been searched at some point after the Quarter Quell. It was an old thing, but still in perfect condition, and it glittered when the sun caught it just right. It was made of elegantly carved gold with crushed diamonds and a topaz stone.

Mags had given him the ring years ago, a year before he met Athena. It had been given to her decades ago by a man she always said was the love of her life. He had died before they could marry, but he left the ring for her and Mags kept it close with her ever since. She still talked about the man sometimes, whose name was Troy Ula, and would answer questions about him whenever asked. The first years after his death were something unbearable, she always said the grief had been overwhelming, so bad she couldn’t even stand to look at the ring for years. Time smoothed things over, though, and eventually the ache she still felt was overpowered by love and fondness and happiness for the time they did get together.

When Mags had explained the significance of the ring, Finnick had at first refused to take it. “Mags, I couldn’t possibly - ”

But Mags had been insistent. “I want you to have it. I... I have loved Troy for a very, very long time. And I always will. Having or not having that ring doesn’t change anything. My love for him goes far, far beyond that, far beyond even life or death. And I’ve been thinking about this for a very, very long time, and the more time that goes by, the more I think - well, what does this ring mean when I’m gone too?” Finnick had tensed up at that. Mags, having noticed, smiled gently and took his hand. “It’s only a physical object until we make it something more. And that’s what I want to do. I want to make sure it keeps meaning something. Like my and Troy’s love can live on along with someone else’s.

“That’s why I wanted to give it to you. I always thought... well, I always figured - I always trusted that whoever you ended up giving it to - if you ever ended up giving it to someone - it would be someone worthy of having it. Worthy of you, I hoped. But now... with what Snow’s doing to you... I know it might not ever be possible.” Mags looked sad now, her eyes shining as she looked at him. “I had hoped so hard for something better for you. For more. But.. but even if it’s never possible or you don’t want to, I want you to have the ring anyway. I trust you with it. I trust that... that it’ll still mean something with you.”

In the end, Finnick had accepted it, promptly pulling her into a tight, long hug. He kept the ring safe in that drawer. For a long time, he didn’t think about the ring in any way other than the meaning attached to it and what it meant that Mags had passed it down to him of all people. He didn’t ever think about giving it to anyone else, because thinking about that was attached to marriage, and Finnick didn’t think about marriage. He saw no point in thinking about it; like Mags had said, it was impossible. It seemed like it would never be possible, and even if he was, would he ever even be capable of such a thing? It had seemed hard to believe.

That had changed at some point after he met Athena. It was hard to pinpoint exactly when this shift began; after sleeping alone began only making him aware of how much he wished she was beside him, perhaps, or when pages and pages in his notebooks became dedicated to her, or when he started seeing her everywhere in beautiful things, or maybe at some other point. Occasionally, especially when Athena had spent the night at his place, he would grab the ring, turn it over in his fingers, allowing himself to indulge momentarily in impossible fantasies, before he reeled them back in and continued on with his day. He had shown the ring to Athena once, only to explain that Mags had passed it down to him, but the whole time impossible desires and lines that were to never be crossed weighed down upon them, so they tried quickly to move on from the topic afterwards.

He hadn’t really planned to take the ring - or anything, really - with him, but now that he was holding it, it seemed vital that he took it with him. Slowly, he closed his fingers around the slightly cold ring, felt it warm up in his fingers.

“Where’s the ring from?” Cressida asked softly.

“Mags gave it to me years ago,” Finnick replied, and launched into a recount of everything, from Mags and Troy’s love to Mags’ reasons for passing it down to him. He didn’t bring up Athena. He didn’t think he could bear it.

The only other thing he took with him was a few photographs of his parents and his aunt and Mags and Annie and Athena. He lingered on the photo of Athena, smiling at the camera on a bright, sunny summer day, in a white dress with soft curls falling around her face. Then, when the aching feeling in his chest almost became too much to bear, he put the photo away again and turned to face the others.

“Do you need anything else from here?”

Cressida and Messalla shook their heads, but Boggs, “We should look through the rest of the houses. Chances are, they've all been detained, but it would be stupid not to check.”

Finnick was filmed while they were in Mags’, Annie’s, and Athena’s houses. Cressida kept using the Q-and-A tactic. At Mags’, she asked about how they met, how they grew so close, what he wished she could see now (everything. The answer came to Finnick quicker than lightning. Everything. The Games and the Capitol took so many chances from her. He wished she could see everything). At Annie’s, she asked about what his first impressions of her was, how the Games changed things, and again, what he wished she could see (that answer came to him quickly, too; all the good, beautiful things in life that her mind often tricked her into believing were not real). Cressida asked the most amount of questions at Athena’s, which Finnick had somehow been expecting.

“Do you think about her a lot?”

“All the time,” Finnick breathed. “All the time. It drives me insane, thinking about what Snow could be doing to her in there.”

“From the warning she gave Thirteen in her final interview, it sounds like she hasn’t given up on the rebel cause. Does seeing that motivate you to keep fighting?”

“It reminds me of why I’m fighting,” Finnick said. “What I’m fighting for. But more than anything, I just think about what Snow must be doing to her because of what she did.”

“She’s really brave to do something like that.”

“She is,” Finnick agreed. “She always has been brave. But I keep thinking about what the price of that bravery is and.. And that I wish she didn’t have to be so brave at all.”

“Why? Because you love her?”

“It’s not about that,” Finnick said at once, surprised and a little angered by the question, “It’s because she's a person. And no person deserves what Snow must be doing to her.”

He realized after a second that going the love route might have been a more romantic way to go and would've made a good propo. He didn't care. Athena's life was worth more than some propaganda clip. Cressida only nodded once and moved on.

Finnick knew that Athena and Annie would probably never be rescued. He knew that District Thirteen had no plans of saving them. He knew that he would probably never see either of them again. He knew it so well that it often haunted him both in his conscious and unconscious moments. All the same, he took some things to give them in case they ever did end up in Thirteen. For Athena, he grabbed some photos of her family as well as a half-full sketchbook and some of her art supplies. For Annie, he grabbed the notebook in which she wrote the lyrics to all her favourite songs so she could always remember them and the notebook in which she wrote memories that she weren’t sure were real or not. Maybe they’d adjust a little better to life in Thirteen with these. If they ever ended up in Thirteen.

Cressida didn’t ask him questions in any of the other houses, but they would occasionally grab a few shots of him. They just swept the houses briskly, mainly to check that the place really was as abandoned as it seemed. Sure enough, there wasn’t a soul alive in Victor’s Village except for them. He tried to push past how wrong it all felt, this place without its normal inhabitants. There was a fairly large chance they were all still alive, but something about walking through their halls without them there made it feel like they were all long dead. This feeling became particularly prominent after they looked through Penelope and Talisa’s place. He stared at the ceiling fan on which they must have hanged themselves, couldn’t help but imagine their bodies hanging from the fan, and had to look away, squeezing his eyes shut, before he broke down right then and there. If he lost his cool, they’d keep him shut up in District Thirteen until the war was over.

When they were finished searching all the houses, Finnick turned to Boggs and said, “Any place in particular you had in mind to go?”

“The Justice Building is the place to start,” said Boggs. “If there’s anything official going on, it has to be there.” He brought a hand to his earpiece. “How are things looking?”

“Should be all clear from here to the Justice Building,” came Plutarch’s voice. “But, Finnick, if you know any secret shortcuts or detours, now’s the time to show it off.”

“Got it,” said Finnick. “Follow me.”

He led them quickly and quietly through a few abandoned twists and turns until they at last reached the Justice Building. Despite Boggs’ thought that this would be a site for some sort of activity, the place looked utterly empty; the lights were all off, and there appeared to be no movement going on inside. What was more, painted on the building in blood red was Katniss’ Mockingjay pin, and underneath it were the words: ‘IF WE BURN, YOU BURN WITH US’.

For a long time, they all just stared up at it quietly.

“No one’s there,” Finnick said at last. “The place is abandoned.”

“But why?” Gale said with a frown.

“Let’s see what we can find out,” Boggs said, his expression grim. “Weapons ready. Follow in behind me.”

Carefully, they crept into the Justice Building. Sure enough, every room was abandoned, even the mayor’s office, which looked like it hadn’t been occupied in ages. The building looked like it had been ransacked, with pieces of furniture knocked over and dried blood on the floor and walls. Whoever had been bleeding here was long gone, though, because they couldn’t find anybody or even any sign that the place had been occupied recently.

When they were back out again, they were quiet for a moment. He could tell from his face that Boggs was thinking hard, trying to remap the route he wanted to take, replan the mission.

“Nothing in the Justice Building?” came Plutarch’s voice.

“Nothing,” Boggs said, more grim than they had been before they even set foot in the building. “Someone put the Mockingjay symbol in front of the building, but it doesn’t look like they’ve claimed the place. I don’t think anybody has. It’s been abandoned, but it looks like it’s been ransacked. Like there’s been a fight. There was blood all over.”

Finnick brought a hand to his earpiece. “How’s the beach looking?”

“Should be clear too,” said Plutarch after a moment, so Finnick led them there instead.

Finnick found it odd how quiet the place was. Even if Finnick was taking them on more secluded paths, he didn’t understand how they didn’t encounter one person yet. It couldn’t be a lockdown, or there would’ve been some sort of alert that they had arrived and were walking around. So what was going on?

They arrived at the beach, which was also deserted. The wind was stronger here, but it was pleasant. Finnick walked forward until he was right at the shore, the waves crashing against his boots. For a moment, he just breathed it in, listened to the ocean’s song with the push and pull of the tides, stared out into the blue horizon.

“This is one of the best places,” Finnick said. “One of the very best places. Standing here, looking out into how endless the ocean is, you sort of feel like you’re at the edge of the world. Until you actually get in the water and you just realize that you’re actually in the middle. You’re in the middle of the world, and the rest of it is stretching out on all sides, and it’s terrifying, but it’s almost amazing. It’s the best thing.” Finally, he tore his eyes away from the ocean and turned to Boggs. “We should go to the docks. Rebellion in District Four started at the docks. It started with minimizing the amount of seafood that got exported to the Capitol. We might find something there.”

But before they could get too close, they saw that the area was crawling with Peacekeepers and retreated further back into the beach. Finnick frowned, both from disappointment that they would have to steer clear of the area (he had meant to find _The Morning Light_ and the lighthouse) and out of confusion. So there were Peacekeepers at the docks and the lighthouse, but seemingly nowhere else? What about the docks was worth guarding more than anything else?

“You said you knew things about District Four that even the Capitol’s surveillance cameras never picked up on,” Cressida said to Finnick. “That seems as good of a place as any to see next.”

Finnick hesitated, trying to figure out where to take them. He had been referring to the cave when he said that, but he didn't want to show them the cave. It would make for a good propo, he knew, but he didn't care. That was between him and Athena. That was no place for cameras. He couldn’t see it from where they were on the beach, but he knew it was there, within walking distance. He longed to be there. He longed to be, for once, free, unobserved. But the rest of the squad was still here and he knew already they weren’t going to let him go alone for anything. Besides, he didn’t know if he’d be able to stand going to that cave, with his and Athena’s initials carved into one of the walls, knowing Athena was where she was.

Finally, he said, “We can check out some of the other neighbourhoods. See if there are more people there.”

He led the way to his old neighbourhood, coming to a stop in front of his old house. He looked from the cracked pavement beneath his feet to the dull white of the house to the splintered porch steps. The shutters were closed, so it was hard to tell if the new family that lived there were in or not.

“This was where I lived,” he said. “Before I became a victor, anyway.”

Gale came to step beside him, looking from Finnick’s old home to the neighbouring houses all around, none of them in any better shape than Finnick’s old house. He was frowning a little, looking thoughtful.

“I used to think that all of Four looked like Victor's Village.”

“It's nothing compared to Twelve,” Finnick admitted. “But it wasn't as easy as it probably looked. A lot of us get left to fend for themselves. Against hunger or distrusting Peacekeepers or who knows what else. And speaking of which...”

He led them a short distance away, to where he knew Athena used to live. He stopped dead when he reached it - or, rather, what was left of it. The place had been utterly demolished, reduced to nothing but rubble. Boggs warned him to stay back, but Finnick ran forward anyway until he was right in front of the wreckage. He looked around him, but every other house was perfectly in tact. Athena’s was the only exception. The damage didn’t look very old, though; it looked like it had only happened quite recently. Not much more than a week or so. Around the same time the bombings happened. Around the same time Athena had warned them of the attack, doubtlessly invoking Snow’s wrath. His heart sank. That had to be why. Maybe Snow knew the sentimental value the place held for Athena, even if she didn't live there anymore. More likely it was because this place had been the designated dwelling of her mother and sister; if she died before they did, they would be taken away from Victor’s Village and sent to live here. Now they had no home and Athena could not protect them. He was punishing them to punish her.

“Athena,” he whispered weakly.

“What is this?” Cressida said, and again, he could see cameras rolling. “Who lived here?”

“Athena did,” he said. “Before she won. And now Snow had it destroyed.”

“Why do you think he did it?”

“Because Athena warned us about the attack on Thirteen,” he said. “He knew this place was important to her. Not only that, he knew that this is where her mother and sister technically live. Now, because of this, they don’t have a home. He did it to punish her. Because this is what he does. Katniss was right. This is what they do, every single time. They’re never going to treat us fairly. They’re never going to give us what we deserve.” He looked away from the rubble and directly into the camera. “That’s why we have to take it. We have to fight back. Or stuff like this - ” he pointed to the rubble - “is going to keep happening. To all of us, sooner or later.”

Before anything else could be said or done, there was the sound of movement. Almost in unison, everyone’s head snapped toward the noise. A young man was walking several yards ahead of them, moving quickly and quietly. Immediately, the group shrunk back to hide behind the rubble, peering over it to see where he was going. When the man was far enough, Boggs made a gesture indicating for them to follow. Weapons at the ready, they followed what was their first sign of life for about fifteen minutes, until they came to a stop at a warehouse not far from the makeshift hospital. The man stopped at the door, looking around to see if the coast is clear; Finnick and the others shrunk back behind a building, peering over the corner as the man opened the door and hurried inside. In the few, precious seconds that the door remained open, Finnick got a glimpse of who else was inside and saw Hudson, along with several other captains down at the docks. All alive.

This was it. This had to be the rebel base here.

“Keep us updated!” came Plutarch’s voice. “Keep us updated, what’s happening? What have you found?”

“Not sure yet,” Boggs said. “Some sort of headquarters. Whether they’re rebels or not is unclear. Going to go check it out - ”

“Wait!” Finnick said. “Let me go first. Alone.”

“Absolutely not, Soldier Odair,” Boggs said at once. “You’re not authorized for combat, I can’t possibly justify making such a risk.”

“Trust me,” said Finnick. “This will go a lot better if they see me first.”

“Why’s that?” said Gale.

“Because I know them,” he said. “I know that they’re with the rebels - some of the people I saw in there were the ones leading the first steps of rebellion here. And they know me. They know I’m not a threat. But they see a bunch of people they don’t know with weapons, they’re not going to react well.” Seeing that they still weren’t fully convinced, Finnick said, “Just let me go in first. Give me five minutes - less, even. Let me talk to them, tell them you’re with me, and then you can go in. You can stay close behind and watch out if something goes wrong. I just need a few minutes.”

Boggs looked conflicted for a split second, seemed to realize that Finnick had a point, and said, “You get three minutes.”

Finnick nodded once. He looked around to ensure that the coast was clear, stood, and hurried over to the warehouse. He paused at the door, taking a deep breath, steeling himself, though he wasn’t quite sure why. Finally, he opened the door and stepped inside.

“Didn’t you see how many more Peacekeepers there were at the docks today? I can’t allow taking a risk like this - ”

“Look, they’re not going anywhere! If we don’t take this risk sooner rather than later, we’ll all starve!”

“Then we’ll do it when we’re strong enough, but right now - ”

It seemed that there was a heated argument going on, but everyone in the warehouse fell silent when Finnick opened the door and took a few steps inside. All heads turned towards him. He could see more familiar faces now. Hudson and the other captains were there, along with some familiar faces from the markets, people he’d known in the academy, and more. There had to be at least three or four hundred people in the wide, spacious warehouse, both on the ground floor and the floor above.

Hudson was the first to get over the shock of seeing him, standing up straighter and striding towards him. “Well, well. Look who decided to show back up.”

“I didn't have much of a choice,” said Finnick, though not with much fire. He knew Hudson knew this already. “I would've come back sooner if I could.”

Hudson didn’t respond to that, holding Finnick at arm’s length and examining him. “Are you okay?”

“Still here,” he said with a shrug. “Has to count for something these days.”

Hudson nodded once. “Too right it does.” She let go of him, taking a few steps back. “I don’t suppose District Thirteen let you come here alone?”

“No,” he said. “I’m here with others from Thirteen. They’ve been concerned about the lack of communication with the district.”

“That makes two of us,” Hudson said, raising her eyebrows just slightly. “Well, bring them in, then.”

Finnick nodded, opened the door, and peered outside. He could see rest of the group where he had left them. He gestured for them to come over, and they jogged the short distance to the warehouse, coming inside. Boggs, Cressida and her crew, Gale, and the rest of her squad all introduced themselves. Hudson, looking distinctly unimpressed, shot a furtive look at Finnick, who nodded once subtly, indicating that she should trust them.

“Who’s in charge here?” asked Boggs.

Almost everyone looked at Hudson. The few who didn’t looked at the younger dark-skinned man with closely cropped hair beside her. He seemed slightly familiar, and after a moment Finnick recognized him as Lawrence Rusher. He used to work on _The Adventurer_ with Hudson all the time, until he’d left to work with the mayor.

Lawrence said, “Hudson is the one who organized this. She’s the reason we’re all here. That last night during the Quarter Quell - maybe an hour or so after the force field blew up, she called a bunch of us up, told us to bring whoever we knew we could trust and meet here.”

“I knew it wouldn’t be long before all hell broke loose,” Hudson explained. “I wanted us to have our own plan in place by that time. If they caught us by surprise or made the first move, we’d have no chance.”

“So what was your plan?” Boggs asked.

“Take control from the inside,” Hudson replied. “If we had control of the resources, then they couldn’t control us. That was the idea, anyway. But there were complications.”

“Like what?”

“Mayor Trenton’s death, for one thing,” Hudson said.

“What happened there?” Finnick asked, crossing his arms and frowning. “What could she have possibly have done for them to justify that?”

“It was more about what she wasn’t doing,” said Lawrence. “She knew rebel groups were forming. There was a lot of pressure from the Capitol to put a complete stop to them, by any means necessary. She refused. She kept trying to compromise, to just talk the rebels down. She didn’t want anyone to get hurt; she wanted to protect her citizens before anything else. Sooner than later, her inaction was viewed as treason in and of itself and she was executed. Her family’s been detained and taken in for question - not that they have any answers.”

“Rusher here spent few months or so working with the mayor,” Hudson said. “He left the docks to do it. We figured the more we knew about what was going on from the inside, the better.”

“I’ve obviously resigned since then,” Lawrence added, with a wry smile.

“Who’s the mayor now?” Boggs asked.

“Well, no one,” Lawrence asked. “Not officially. After they killed Mayor Trenton, we realized we had a brief window of time before they found a new mayor and put them in office, a window where they’d be vulnerable. If there was ever a time to take control, that seemed like it.”

“So you stormed the Justice Building,” Gale said.

“You saw that, did you?” Hudson said grimly. “Yes, we got four hundred of us. Half went to the Justice Building, while the other half went to the Peacekeepers’ Headquarters. We weren't as well-equipped in terms of weapons, but we figured our numbers alone would make up for it. Well, you saw what happened at the Justice Building. We took it easy. Minimal casualties. But that's only because there were minimal amount of Peacekeepers there. And after we took over, we realized that any resources or information we could've possibly used to our advantage was gone. They'd moved it to Headquarters - where most of their manpower was waiting for us.”

“They knew you were going to attack,” Finnick said softly, realization hitting him like a ton of bricks.

“They did,” Hudson said, looking more down than he had ever seen her. “The casualties of that day... most of the fighters who attacked the Headquarters died. The few that managed to make it back were badly injured, and many of them didn't last long. They still have the resources and the control, and we’re far too weak to make another big move like that. We’ve been trying to recover and keep fighting ever since.”

“It also means that we have no sitting mayor,” Lawrence added. “The Peacekeepers get instructions from the Capitol and they carry it out - which, believe it or not, is just as effective as having a mayor, especially when we’re getting more Peacekeepers shipped out here by the day.”

“Ever since, our goals have been to recover and figure out the their plans so we can figure out a plan to counter it,” Hudson went on. “Recovery’s been hard, as you can imagine. Healers at the hospital are running low on supplies for the sick and the wounded, and it’ll only get worse once winter comes. Not to mention how low we’ve been running on food.”

“How can that be?” Cressida said with a frown. “If you’re right by the ocean...”

“But we have no access to the ocean,” Hudson said. “Did you happen to see all the Peacekeepers at the docks?” Finnick and the rest of the squad all nodded. “They’ve got the place on lockdown. Nobody is allowed out at sea unless directly cleared to do so, and none of us have been given authorization since the attack. We have to sneak out on small boats in the middle of the night and catch what we can, but it’s dangerous. One, we have to make sure we’re not caught. Second, the conditions have to be perfect, because they keep the light at the lighthouse off so that if the conditions are bad, we’ll just get lost at sea. And even what we do catch isn’t enough, with our numbers growing so much.”

“What are your numbers like?” Boggs interjected. “How many people do you have on your side?”

“Our numbers started small,” said Lawrence. “We started with about as many people as we have here. As time went on and things got worse, more people started joining us. The bombing in Eight and the Mockingjay’s speech after really inspired a lot of people to action. Since then, we’ve got four other warehouses housing about the same amount of rebels.”

“That still doesn’t account for everyone in Four,” Boggs pointed out.

“Some still don’t want to rebel,” said Lawrence. “Some think it’s a losing battle. Some don’t want to take the risk. These are scary, dangerous times; people are too scared to even leave their homes unless they have to. But we’re gaining more supporters every day.

“And either way,” added Hudson, “we don’t have enough resources for the people we do have. Which we think is all part of the Capitol’s plan. We’ve got people who go off on reconnaissance sometimes - follow Peacekeepers around, spy on their Headquarters, see what information they can get. They’ve been doing us a huge favour.”

“Talking about me again, Hudson?” came a voice from behind him. Finnick whipped around to see who he recognized as Sirena Rivers, Calypso’s girlfriend, striding into the warehouse. She paused only for a moment at the sight of him. “Oh, you’re back. With - ” she eyed the squad standing with him - “friends. The more, the merrier, I guess.” She shrugged and turned back to Hudson. “Nothing new today. The plan seems the same as always. Why are you looking at me?” she added, noticing that Finnick was staring at her.

“Aren’t you too young to be fighting wars?” he asked her.

She scowled. “The Mockingjay is literally only a year older than me.”

“Yeah,” he said, “she’s too young too.”

“I wasn’t any happier about it than you are, Finnick,” Hudson said. “But she’s sharp and she’s quick and quiet on her feet, and we need all the help we can get.”

“And what is this plan?” Boggs cut in. “What do you suspect they’re trying to do?”

“We think they’re trying to make us dependant on them again,” Hudson said. “Starve us out, wait until we’re all sick and injured and hungry and drained, until we have no fight in us, so that eventually we go crawling back to them. They’ll punish us how they see fit, and then they’ll go back to having full control. Which is why not just surviving, but thriving is a top priority for us. After that, we’re going to go back to building up our numbers more until we can overpower them, by getting more people who are on the fence on our side and the like. Another big way we aim to do that is by breaking out those being detained in the district.”

“Who’s being detained?” Finnick asked sharply. “You said Mayor Trenton’s family, but who else? Do you know?”

“Many are from our numbers,” Lawrence said. “But not all of them. Some we’re not sure of, but we do know the victors have been detained.” He shot Finnick a sympathetic look. “They were taken not long after the Quarter Quell.”

“All of them?” Finnick said, trying to function properly despite a heaviness like led spreading through his chest. He had an idea of the answer, but he needed to hear it out loud anyway.

“Well,” Hudson said slowly, “not _all_ of them.”

Finnick’s heart lifted. Some of them weren’t imprisoned? They weren’t all in the Capitol’s hands? But who?

Before he could ask, a familiar voice said, somewhere between a shriek and a cry of joy, “Finnick? FINNICK!”

Crowds parted to let her run past them. Tangled, dark hair flew behind her, and sea green eyes were wide and shining and delighted. Finnick felt relief he had not felt in so long - genuine, actual relief, and joy, too, because sprinting towards him at top speed was Annie Cresta.


	11. XI

**XI**

 

Annie reached him within moments and all but crashed into him as she flung her arms around him in a hug, nearly knocking him right over. At first, he was so stunned that he didn’t react - couldn’t react, almost unable to move. And then it dawned on him, truly registering in his mind, that this was Annie, out of Snow's reach and alive and real, and he hugged her back as tightly as he could. They stayed there for a long time, and Finnick pulled away with reluctance, examining her for a moment. She looked fairly healthy; more exhausted than usual, and a little thinner, but otherwise healthy.

“Finnick!” she cried again. “You're here! You're back! I - what are you doing here? I thought - you were - aren't you supposed to be in - in District Thirteen.”

“I'm here on a mission,” he replied. “I can't stay. But I wanted to come back, as long as I could. But what are you doing here? How could you be here? I was so sure - did you not get arrested?”

Annie frowned, now looking distinctly troubled. “I managed to escape.”

“How?”

“I - it was the last night of the Quarter Quell,” Annie said. “I was watching - it was what I spent all my time doing, watching and seeing if you and Athena were still okay, still - still - ” she made herself stop abruptly, closing her eyes and covering her ears for several moments, until the crease between her eyebrows lessened. She removed her hands, opened her eyes again, and said, “Well, anyway, I was watching. And then I remember, after the force field blew out, everything just went quiet. It was so, so silent for so long, and all I could think about was how scared I was for you and Athena. And then I heard marching outside. I looked out the window and I see all these Peacekeepers marching right to Athena's place. They forced the door open and then... I couldn't see what happened, but I could hear it. I could hear yelling, and I could hear her mother and sister screaming, and I could hear struggling, like there was a fight... I heard a gunshot...”

She had to stop again, squeezing her eyes shut as tears sprung in her eyes. Finnick held her hand and waited until she was ready to keep talking again. He could think of nothing to say that would make her feel better, especially not when he was still reeling from this confirmation that Snow did have his hands on Athena’s mother and Calypso. When she opened her eyes again, they were wet with tears, but she continued regardless.

“And I don’t know how, but... somehow... I just... I just knew that when they were done with her mother and sister, that I’d be next. I kept thinking about what I was going to do, and - and I realized... nobody would go looking for me in Mags’ place... since they... they killed her, they’d have no reason to go looking through her house, and nobody would think that I would go in there when she’s not there anymore... and I had the spare key she gave me, so I just... I didn’t help them - I didn’t help Calypso and Marella, I just - I went out and I ran as fast as I could to Mags’, and then I ran upstairs and hid in a closet, and that's... that's all I did... I didn't help, them, I didn't -”

But Annie broke down into tears all over again, unable to continue.

“It's okay,” Finnick said heavily, pulling her into a tight hug and rubbing her back. “It's okay. There's nothing you could've done. The Peacekeepers would've just taken you too. They wouldn’t blame you.”

Finnick only pulled away from Annie when she stopped crying, holding her at arm’s length as she began to speak again. “I was in there for so long. I could hear them. They got closer, which means at some point they got to my house. I could hear them looking for me. And then it got quiet again, which means they must have left, but I stayed hiding in the closet. I was too scared to leave, it was like I couldn’t move. I don’t even know how long I was in there for. Over a day, for sure. Maybe more. But eventually, I started realizing I’d have to leave. I figured they might come back. Maybe they’d come for all the victors and they’d look through all the houses. Maybe they’d figure out that I was hiding there. Besides, I realized I’d have to eat or drink something soon. So eventually, I forced myself to get up and leave the closet. By the time I left, it was night time again and nobody was outside, so I snuck out and left Victor’s Village. I didn’t know where to go, so I went to the beach. I sat at the shore and tried to think. I saw the docks in the distance and realized that maybe I could hide out on _The Morning Light_ for a while. On the way there, I found Hudson and Lawrence. I think they could see how scared I was, because they asked me what was wrong. I told them what had happened, and they took me here. I’ve been here ever since.”

“She left right in the nick of time,” said Hudson. “The very next day, the Peacekeepers came in, searched every house - including Mags’ - and took everyone they found as prisoners. If she waited even until morning, they would’ve taken her too.”

“Fuck, Annie,” he whispered. For a moment, it was hard to form coherent words, but he got the ability back soon enough. He placed his hands on her shoulders and said, as firmly as he could, “Look, it was really, really smart of you to hide out at Mags’. It was really clever and I’m glad you did it. You shouldn’t feel guilty. There’s nothing you could’ve done for Calypso or Marella. They wouldn’t blame you. Neither do I. Neither would Athena.”

But at the mention of Athena, Annie began shaking her head profusely, covering her face with her hands. “Did you see her? On the television? What are they doing to her? She looked so scared during her interview. And then during that broadcast - the way she screamed. What are they doing? What are they doing to her mother and sister? And they have Johanna too - I haven’t even seen her, who knows what’s happened to her - and I just keep thinking - it could get so much worse, and they’re trapped there, they - ”

Annie broke down again, and this time, it wasn’t something that could be soothed within a few minutes. She was hysterical, her whole body shaking horribly as she wept. Finnick looked around, before leading her away gently to an empty corner of the room. He pulled her towards him in a hug, rubbing her back comfortingly.

“I know,” he whispered, trying to keep it together himself. “I know, I think about them all the time. It drives me insane, thinking about what he might be doing to them.”

He only pulled away when Annie stopped shaking. She was still sobbing.

“It must be worse for you,” she said. “You must have been so close to Athena when it happened... when they took her... and you and her have always been - ”

“Yeah,” Finnick said tightly. “I know.”

“Oh, it’s horrible, Finnick!” Annie said, letting out a guttural sob. “They take everything - they take every- _fucking_ -thing, and they never stop, and it always get worse, and... they’ll die in there, won’t they? They’ll die in Snow’s hands, and he’s going to make it so horrible for them...”

“I know,” he said again, his voice catching in a way he didn’t like. “But I figure... I need to keep fighting. That’s why we even got here. Because me and Athena wanted to fight for this revolution. And I figure... I owe it to them to keep fighting, if nothing else.”

Annie thought about this for a moment; she’d mostly stopped crying, sniffling and tears escaping her eyes every once in a while. Suddenly, she perked up, staring up at Finnick and saying, “Can I go too? To Thirteen? I’m no use here. I haven’t been any help here, and you heard what they said about how they’re struggling to provide for everyone. But maybe in Thirteen I can do more. And besides... I don’t want to be away from you. I want to stay close to you.”

“You want to go?” Finnick said, relieved. He’d been dreading the mere idea of leaving her behind again.

She nodded.

“Okay,” he said, smiling, a genuine smile that was becoming increasingly rare. “Okay. We’ll make it happen.”

He led her back to the others. He caught sight of cameras and knew at once that Castor and Pollux had filmed the interaction. He shook his head and made a mental note to tell Annie about the propos and ask if she was okay with them later. Boggs was speaking in depth with Hudson and Lawrence, setting up a more stable way for District Four and Thirteen to communicate, occasionally consulting Plutarch and the others on the hovercraft.

“...once that’s up and running, soon enough things will look up here,” Boggs was saying. “We’ve taken control of District Eleven, which is the country’s main food supplier, so we can get more food sent down to you. We’ll also figure out a plan to take care of this lockdown at the docks, and we’ll get more medical supplies sent to you as soon as possible. Once all that is taken care of and you’ve got more support here, we can set our sights on taking control of the headquarters.”

“That all sounds good to me,” said Hudson. “But you’re sure you’ll be able to keep this communication going?”

“Yes,” Boggs said at once, nodding. “We’ve got people back at Thirteen who could break into Capitol servers. If they can do that, they can make sure we stay in contact.”

Hudson seemed satisfied with this answer, as did Lawrence beside her. It was only then that everyone noticed the return of Finnick and Annie. Boggs looked at Finnick, then at the way Annie was standing so close beside him.

“She’s coming with us, isn’t she?” was all he said.

Already feeling like he needed to argue his case, Finnick said, “President Coin did say in front of everyone in Thirteen that she would hold herself and the government responsible for the victors’ safety. That includes letting them in Thirteen.”

Boggs looked frustrated, a sigh escaping his lips. Perhaps he was thinking about how exactly he would explain to Coin that they had left District Thirteen as a party of fifteen and returned a party of sixteen. But his eyes fell on Annie and his face softened.

“District Thirteen has room for you,” he said. “Don’t you worry.”

Annie looked relieved. Finnick was too, having expected this to be much more difficult than it ended up being.

Annie looked towards Hudson and Lawrence. “I hope you don’t mind! I - I think I can do more there - I can be better - ”

But Hudson was waving away her explanations. “Don’t you worry about us. Do what you think is right for you. That’s what matters.”

Smiling, Annie hugged both Hudson and Lawrence quickly but tightly, saying, “Thank you for - for everything you’ve done.”

At that moment, Plutarch’s voice came sharply from his earpiece, saying, “We’ve got trouble. Capitol hovercrafts about five hundred yards away, and what looks like a lot of Peacekeeper vehicles three hundred yards away.”

At the same time, from the corner of the room, red flares went up, shooting up halfway towards the ceiling, before flickering into lifelessness and dropping back to the floor.

“What was that?” Gale asked at once, his voice urgent.

“A signal we set up to alert us of an attack,” said Hudson. “The other warehouses and the hospital have it, too.”

“What kind of attack?” Finnick asked sharply. “What’s happening?”

“It happens every once and a while,” Hudson said. “Whenever they get frustrated because we’re not dying fast enough, they’ll rain down fire around us - not to burn this place down, just so that we’re trapped here for a while. Then Peacekeepers will come around and shoot at us from the windows. That’s the idea, anyway. The main goals are to make us stay put so we can’t do anything and to scare us, and if they manage to take some of us down in the meanwhile, then even better for them. If the signal went off, that means they’re close by. You should go.”

The task force seemed to ready to follow her orders immediately, but Finnick stayed right where he was, as did Annie. The rest of the task force might have no stake in this, in these people, but Finnick did. This was his home. These were his people. He would not leave them behind to perish.

“What about you guys?” Finnick asked. “What will you do?”

Hudson smiled at him, as bracingly as she could. “We'll be just fine. We've dealt with this more than once, we have a procedure for this. Your presence will only complicate things and endanger us all. I know you're not stupid enough to try and be a hero, Odair. You'll be doing everyone a favour if you go back to Thirteen. Keep fighting the war from there. And we'll keep fighting it from here. Now go.”

Finnick hesitated for a moment longer, before finally nodding. He was just turning away with the rest of the squad, when Hudson called him back.

“Odair!”

He turned back around.

“If you ever see Athena again,” Hudson said, “you make sure she knows... make sure she knows that...” but she trailed off. For the first time, Hudson seemed to be at a loss for words. “Make sure she knows I'm still on her side. And that I'm proud of her. That we all are.”

For a moment, Finnick just stared at her. He had been wondering this, admittedly; how people in Four would perceive Athena’s interview. If they’d know and understand that she had to say it, or if they’d think her a traitor the way they did in Thirteen. Athena was so close to Hudson, she’d always looked up to her... it was something of a relief to hear that Hudson did not think her a traitor. He nodded once and looked around, getting one last glimpse of the gathered rebels, his people, before turning and joining the rest of the task force as they fled from the warehouse, holding tightly onto Annie’s hand.

Once outside, they could hear the sound of hovercrafts more clearly, bigger than the hovercraft that brought them here. Soon enough, they could see them flying through the air, heading towards the rebel bases. He wanted to bring them down, but he made himself refrain; even if he could get high enough to get a clear shot at them, there was no guaranteeing where it would go crashing; it might crash right into a warehouse, or else into some other building that was being inhabited. There was too much of a chance he’d do more harm than good.

Plutarch, from the hovercraft, was guiding them about which direction they should go to stay out of sight of the Peacekeeper vans and of the hovercrafts. Eventually, though, as they were almost out of the area, they caught sight of the vehicles. They were driving at top speed, one after the other in a straight line. Finnick acted out of instinct; he stopped running, ignoring Boggs’s command to “Keep moving, Soldier Odair!”, raised his trident, and aimed right at the van in front of the line. The impact of his trident caused the vehicle to tip over and fall on its side, and the vehicles behind it had been moving too fast to stop; it set off a sort of chain reaction, each vehicle crashing into the one in front of it, until they had all crushed into each other, broken and incapacitated. Satisfied, Finnick pressed the button on his metal cuff, bringing his trident back into his hand within seconds, and took off running again. He already knew he’d have to hear about that from Boggs, but for now, probably because they were all too busy running, he was spared from it.

They ran until they reached Victor’s Village, where the hovercraft was waiting for them. They all hurried into the hovercraft, hastened to buckle themselves into their seats, and soon the hovercraft was taking off. Finnick’s eyes were glued to the window, watching as the hovercraft lifted them up, up, up, and away from District Four. He drank in every last glimpse of his home that he could get, particularly the ocean, and only tore his eyes away from the window when they were so high up that it was impossible to decipher anything on the ground. Soon, they were moving away from Four altogether.

“You shouldn’t worry about them,” Annie whispered from beside him. “Hudson was right, they know how to deal with these things. They wait it out on the basement, but they set up above-ground so that it looks like the place is occupied - you know, so Peacekeepers don’t just storm in and find them. They’re shooting at nothing, but they never realize. But us being there would’ve just slowed down and distracted them. They’ll be okay.”

Slowly, he nodded, trying to convince himself of that.

Plutarch looked an odd combination of delighted and nervous about Annie’s presence; he had likely spent a long time with the poor, mad girl narrative running through his head. After all, he had had a hand in perpetuating it. It was clear he didn’t quite know how to approach her. He went with sticking out his hand and saying, “Miss Cresta! What a delight to be seeing you again!”

Annie looked at a loss at the sight of Plutarch; she likely did not understand how a man from the Capitol - and a Gamemaker, on top of that - was on a rebel aircraft.

Finnick signed to her, “He’s with the rebels. He actually plays a big role in the rebellion; you’ll see in Thirteen. He was one of the people who organized the rescue mission during the Quarter Quell.” At the stunned look on Annie’s face, he grinned and said, “I know. But you can trust him.”

Annie still seemed to be having trouble reconciling these two things, but decided to take Finnick’s word for it, looking back to Plutarch and shaking his hand, smiling tentatively at him. “You too.”

Castor and Pollux were eyeing Finnick and Annie in interest now, the latter signing, “You know sign language?”

Finnick nodded, signing, “Mags knew it. Her parents taught her. She had trouble speaking after the Games, so she would use sign language. She taught us how.”

Pollux smiled, but said, turning to his brother, “I guess we have to be more careful about what we say in front of these two.”

Finnick, Annie, and Castor all laughed. He was a little surprised at how genuine his own laughter was, and delighted to be hearing Annie laugh again. Plutarch seemed a little put-out that he was being left out of the joke. Boggs didn’t seem to be paying attention to their encounter at all; he was staring very fixedly at Finnick.

“What you did back there,” he said. “That stunt you pulled - you weren’t authorized to do that.”

“I know,” Finnick said, knowing better than to argue this point. “And I’m sorry. But that’s my home. Those are my people. I have to do whatever I can to help them.”

“If you want to help them,” said Boggs, “then don’t let your emotions get in the way of the things you do.”

And in all fairness, Boggs probably did learn to be objective when it came to all matters similar to this, taught to keep emotion far away from the world of war.

Finnick just said, “A lot more revolutions start and are motivated by emotion than you give them credit for. Exhaustion and anger at the way things are. Hope that it can be better. It shouldn’t be underestimated.”

“It shouldn’t be used before your head, either,” Boggs said, and Finnick, knowing that he had a point, left the discussion at that; it didn’t seem like Boggs was going to punish him or report him in any way, so it was probably best he didn’t push the matter.

He looked to Annie, who was staring out the window at fluffy white clouds, much more calm than she had been before. All of a sudden, he did not care about whether or not he’d face some sort of punishment for his actions back in Four. Annie was here. He had his friend, one of his very best friends, back with him. He was not alone. For the time being, that was all that mattered.

 

*

 

It did make a difference, having Annie around. Everything about life in District Thirteen seemed to shift slightly, and for the better, too. Coin reacted well enough to Annie’s appearance in the district; after all, she had told the entirety of Thirteen, on camera, that she would hold herself and the government responsible for the victors’ safety, and there was really no undoing such a thing. Annie was put in the hospital while doctors examined her and tried to figure out whether or not she was stable enough for life in District Thirteen. Finnick didn’t like the way they talked to her and treated her, but they never listened when he told them they were going about interacting with Annie all wrong. Perhaps because he himself only just stopped being considered mentally disoriented a few days ago.

Finnick had given Annie the two notebooks he had taken from her place, which she was grateful to have, making her time in Thirteen much easier. He spent all his free time visiting her, even skipping some parts of his schedule or cutting them short to see her. She usually felt better when he went to see her, so it was worth it. They talked about almost anything, but they avoided talking about anyone who had ever lived in Victor’s Village, because that always ended in a breakdown for one or both of them (often both), because no matter how much their presence soothed each other, it was not enough to undo the damage that had been done to them. It was not enough to put two broken people back together again. And the reality remained that many of their conversations were had in adjacent hospital beds after Finnick was sent back after another relapse.

One day, Finnick and Annie were sitting upright in their respective beds, talking about the propos. Annie didn’t mind being involved in the propo they had put together of the mission to District Four (which they had already broadcasted everywhere in Panem, but not in the Capitol; they said they were holding off on that, though they didn’t explain why), even if there had been footage of her breaking down; she was fine with it so long as it meant she was contributing to the rebellion in some way. Still, she was a little troubled by it.

“It does feel a little... I mean, some parts of the propo, it just felt... it’s not that far away from the stuff the Capitol did.”

“I know,” Finnick said, in the middle of tying a vision knot; in times like these, Annie would name knots and he would tie them. “But it’s not surprising when you remember everyone in charge of that part of the war is from the Capitol.”

“That’s true,” she conceded. “The Capitol’s been running the media for the last seventy-five years; I guess they would know how to go about countering it now. And it’s not the same. It’s not as bad. But... it still doesn’t feel quite right. But,” she continued, sitting up straighter and looking at Finnick more squarely, “I think those We Remember propos you did were really, really good. What you said about Mags was...” she paused for a moment; tears sprung in her eyes, but she wiped them aside impatiently and made herself continue, “it was important that you did it. We can’t forget her. I’m glad you’re not letting anyone forget.”

For a moment, Finnick simply looked at her, before nodding once, glad that she understood. At that moment, Annie’s head doctor spotted them talking, hurried over, and scolded them like they were children, saying that Annie ought to get all the sleep she can get. After she’d left, Annie shot Finnick a look.

“I’m not five,” she mumbled.

“It’ll take them a couple weeks to remember,” Finnick informed her.

Regardless, with no desire for her head doctor to reprimand them again, Annie lied down, and since it was quite late, Finnick followed suit. They still talked quietly until Annie had fallen asleep. Finnick tied his knots in silence. About an hour later was when the nightmares seemed to come to Annie, because she started shaking and crying out in her sleep, shaking her head. Finnick was getting up to wake her up and comfort her, but one of her doctors came around to inject her with morphling before he could. It was a small dose, and soon Annie did go still again, but Finnick protested it immediately; Annie said she didn't like the morphling, didn't like the way it made her feel like she had no control over her body and made it even harder to tell what was real and what was not. As usual, they did not listen; they told him that they only gave her what she needed, and that he, as a recovering patient, ought to be focusing on getting rest himself.

Finnick, to his credit, really did try to go to sleep, but he couldn’t manage to convince his brain and his body to do so. He was still upset at how they’d sedated Annie, and at some point, the television had come on and showcased clips of Athena being passed around at all sorts of events in the Capitol, and the haunted, terrified look in her eyes, the fact that they seemed even more devoid of light than before, became burned in his mind, all he could think about. He tried to tie knots with his rope, but his hands were shaking too bad for him to finish it. He only realized he must have been relapsing again when doctors came along and sedated him too.

His sleep was deep, but it was not peaceful. His nightmares felt distant, but still were enough to bring him pain. At some point, it felt like his whole body was being shaken roughly. It was so bad that it woke him up, and he realized then that it was because Katniss was shaking him awake. Katniss still had been spending most of her time in the hospital, trying to recover again. As such, she and Annie had met. Katniss hadn’t known what to make of Annie at first, but had been pretty quick to warm up to her.

“What’s happening?” he asked Katniss, a little groggy, rather agitated; being thrust back into reality only put images of Athena’s face, specifically her eyes, in his mind again, tearing at him.

Katniss didn’t waste any time. “They’re going to try and rescue Peeta, Athena, and Johanna.”

Finnick sat up at once, frowning. Katniss’ words made no sense. “What?”

“They’re going to try and rescue them. They didn’t want to do it before because they thought it was too costly, but now they think it’s worth it. They want to make sure we can keep going without having to think about whether or not Snow will take it out on them. Boggs and Gale and some other volunteers left a while ago. Haymitch is talking to Plutarch right now to see if there’s something we can do to help.”

Finnick considered this. They were going to try and rescue Athena, Johanna, and Peeta. This had to be the other mission that Boggs had mentioned on the way to Four. Everything came down to today, then. Their fates would be determined today. Whether they lived or died, it would be determined by today. There would be no more dragging on of their torture. It would end today. No matter what happened, they would be free by the end of the day. Snow wouldn’t be able to torture them anymore. Though he was terrified for the scenario in which they died, there was a certain amount of relief in the thought. Katniss looked upset and agitated, but he found something distinctly calming in the thought that this torment could at last come to an end.

“Don’t you see, Katniss?” he said. “This will decide things. One way or the other. By the end of the day, they’ll either be dead or with us. It’s... it’s more than we could hope for!”

Katniss seemed sort of surprised by this perspective, but she seemed to realize he had a point.

Haymitch came into the hospital, striding towards them. He had a job for them, if they could pull it together. They still needed post-bombing footage of Thirteen. “If we can get it in the next few hours, Beetee can air it leading up to the rescue, and maybe keep the Capitol’s attention elsewhere. They have the footage from the mission to District Four, but the more he has to work with to distract them, the better.”

“Yes, a distraction,” Finnick said. “A decoy of sorts.”

“What we really need is something so riveting that even President Snow won’t be able to tear himself away,” said Haymitch. “Got anything like that?”

Having a job that might help the mission - that might actually help in saving Athena - snapped Finnick back into focus. He knocked down his breakfast and got prepped, all the while thinking of what he might say. Snow was likely wondering how his torture of Athena was affecting him; the goal was probably that it was breaking him. It was clear to him, then, that he needed to be put-together and composed; if Snow wanted him broken, then he would make sure that he saw him as a whole. But what could he actually say? He could always yell some defiant lines at him, he supposed. But that wouldn’t do. One, it wouldn’t convince Snow of anything, and two, it wouldn’t buy the rescue team any time. Outbursts were short, fleeting, sometimes even forgettable. It was stories that took time, that really grabbed attention, that were hard to forget. But what did he have to tell?

When Annie woke up, he told her about the mission and his and Katniss’ job to provide some sort of distraction (Annie’s doctors were firm in saying that she was in no shape to perform such a task, and with how disturbed she looked from the nightmares she had just had, even Finnick had to admit they had a point). She seemed just as stumped as he was about what he could say. He’d have to figure it out when he got out there; perhaps he’d get Cressida to revert to the Q-and-A method to lead him somewhere good.

When they were all assembled above-ground, Katniss went first, which he was glad for, because he felt thoroughly unprepared for his propo. Katniss had Cressida ask questions about Peeta to get her going. She sat down on a fallen marble pillar, waiting for the red light and Cressida’s first question.

“How did you meet Peeta?” Cressida asked.

“When I met Peeta, I was eleven years-old, and I was almost dead,” Katniss said, launching into a story of an awful, rainy day where she’d been unsuccessful in getting any money for food, Peeta’s mother had chased her out the bakery door, and how he had taken a beating to bring her loaves of bread that ended up saving her and her family. “We had never even spoken. The first time I ever talked to Peeta was on the train to the Games.”

“But he was already in love with you,” said Cressida.

“I guess so,” Katniss said with a small smile.

“How are you doing with the separation?”

“Not well,” Katniss admitted. “I know that at any moment, Snow could kill him. Especially since he warned Thirteen about the bombing. It’s a terrible thing to live with. But because of what they’re putting him through, I don’t have any reservations anymore. About doing whatever it takes to destroy the Capitol. President Snow once admitted to me that the Capitol was fragile. At the time, I didn’t know what he meant. It was hard to see clearly because I was so afraid. Now I’m not. The Capitol’s fragile because it depends on the districts for everything. Food, energy, even the Peacekeepers that police us. If we declare our freedom, the Capitol collapses. President Snow, thanks to you, I’m officially declaring mine today.”

Katniss was sufficient; in particular, the bread story is a huge success. Now that it was time for Finnick to talk, the gears in his mind started turning quickly. He was trying to figure out what exactly he would talk about; he was considering following in Katniss’ footsteps and having Cressida ask him questions about Athena, when Plutarch was calling him and Haymitch over to have a talk in private.

“Finnick,” Plutarch said, “do you have anything in your head already that you really want to talk about?”

“Not yet,” Finnick admitted. “I was thinking of talking about Athena.”

“That could work,” Plutarch said. “It was what I thought about at first, but Katniss’ last words got me thinking. Why don’t you say something that’ll really send a message to Snow?”

Finnick and Haymitch both stared at him blankly, waiting for him to elaborate. After a beat, he did.

“It’s my understanding that Snow had you - that he forced you to sell your body to wealthier Capitol citizens,” said Plutarch, a touch awkwardly. “He had the same arrangement with several other victors, and often held it over victors’ heads as a threat, but you received much of the worst of it.”

Finnick tensed. He straightened up, looking at Plutarch with clearer eyes. “You want me to talk about that.”

Haymitch was protesting immediately. “No. Absolutely not. You can’t possibly expect him to do something like this.”

“Just think about the benefits,” Plutarch said, trying to sound placating.

“ _Benefits_ \- ” Haymitch repeated incredulously.

“Just hear me out,” Plutarch insisted. “This is the best possible angle you could go with, Finnick. You’ll be exposing some of the worst abuses Snow put victors through. You’ll be putting things he usually kept under the radar for everyone to see. That’s going to grab attention. Not only that, but it’s my understanding that instead of monetary or other kinds of material payment, you asked instead for secrets from your patrons?” Finnick nodded. “I can only imagine the kind of information you’ve accumulated over the years. Talk about the things you’ve been told. I imagine a great deal of them are about Snow himself. This way, you’ll be airing out all his dirty laundry, exposing all the biggest skeletons in his closet. No one’ll be able to look away. Especially not Snow or anyone in the Capitol, who will all be personally affected by this. It’s perfect. The effect will be tremendous.”

“Look,” Haymitch said, looking and sounding like it was taking him a lot to sound calm, “that’s real easy for you to say when you’re not affected by this personally, but this is completely unreasonable - ”

“How is it unreasonable?” Plutarch said, an edge in his voice now. “This is war. Sometimes people need to do the things that are hard. This is the most dangerous mission that’s been attempted so far. We need all the help we can get - and more importantly, we need the best help we can get. That’s not always easy.”

Finnick was silent, thinking. The thought of talking about it, in front of so many people, on camera, where it would be broadcasted to the Capitol - by the very people who had bought him and raped him and never thought twice about it - was horrifying, and his hands would’ve started shaking if he didn’t immediately begin tying and untying knots with his rope before they got the chance. But there was no denying that Plutarch had a point. The effect telling his story and all the secrets he had learned would be great; everyone in the Capitol would doubtlessly be unable to turn away from their screens, and wasn’t that the goal?

“Think about how it’ll help the mission,” said Plutarch.

How it’ll help the mission. How it’ll help Athena.

That decided things, in the end, so Finnick made himself nod, saying, “Yes. Yes, you’re right. I’ll do it.”

Before he could even begin to talk himself out of it, he walked over to sit on the marble pillar in front of the camera. Haymitch walked over to him and said, “You don’t have to do this.”

But Finnick only shook his head and said, “Yes, I do. If it’ll help her.”

He took a moment to think, really think, about what he was about to do. What he was about to say. For a split second, he closed his eyes. He saw himself at fourteen, being flung into the alien world that was the Capitol, realizing that people, many of them years older than him, all desired him, all saw him in ways he had never seen himself until that moment. He saw himself at sixteen, with Snow gazing at him from across a wooden desk and telling him about what he would do to Mags if he did not comply. He saw himself, sixteen years-old, standing, barely-clothed, in front of a woman years older than him (he did not know exactly how old she was, because he couldn’t bear to ask; somehow, it would’ve made things worse) who asked him if he was a virgin, smiling in a way that made it hard not to shudder when he said yes. He saw himself growing older and older, wearier and wearier, more and more broken as time went by, and with it came more wealthy Capitol citizens, more bedrooms that were as terrifying as the arena, more secrets whispered to him across pillows in the dead of night, none of them ever providing him the satisfaction or the feeling of regaining power over himself that he’d always wanted. He could feel how much he grew to love Athena, and how much that love terrified him because of what would happen if it ever got out that he loved a girl from District Four and none of the Capitol people who paid so much money for limited time with him.

He thought about how long it had taken him to acknowledge how sad it all it was. He thought about how it taken him a long time to realize how he angry he was, too, and several more years to realize he had a good many reasons to be angry. He hadn’t really known what to think at first; certainly, he knew it was something so horrible that nobody deserved it, but there had always been the lingering thought that perhaps he had done this to himself (after all, he had always been aware that he was good-looking and that, more importantly, other people thought he was good-looking. He had consciously played into that desirability during his Games; perhaps if he hadn't put so much emphasis on his looks, the Capitol might not have seen him in such a sexual light in the first place). It took him a long time (and a few long discussions with Athena and Mags) to realize that the blame for all of this fell squarely on Snow and the Capitol’s shoulders.

Still, it all terrified him. He felt so close to breaking down at the mere thoughts running through his mind. But he had to do it, so he took a deep breath and steeled himself, forcing himself to become whole again, just for the moment. He opened his eyes and balled up the rope in his hand.

“I’m ready.”

When the light turned red and the camera started rolling, he didn’t need Cressida ask any questions or guide him along. No, this was a story with which he was very familiar.

In a flat, removed tone, he told the truth. He told the whole story, right from the start. How the Capitol had always found him attractive, but at fourteen, even they could not justify acting upon those desires. How, the moment he turned sixteen, he was essentially considered fair game and thus President Snow started selling his body. How Snow would kill the loved ones of those who did not comply. How Finnick was not the only one who was put through this, but he was the most popular and the most defenseless, since the people he loved were often so defenseless. How, at first, his patrons would offer him money or jewels, but he soon found a much more valuable method of payment in the form of secrets.

From there, he began to talk about the very secrets he had been told; he didn’t talk about Snow at first, instead talking about the secrets of other prominent Capitol figures, exposing tales of strange sexual appetites, betrayals of the heart, bottomless greed, bloody power plays, incest, backstabbing, blackmail, arson, and more, more, more, there was so much more. From there, he moved onto Snow - more specifically, how he managed to keep his power for so long. How, all throughout Snow’s political ascension, there was case after case of mysterious deaths of Snow’s adversaries or allies who had the potential to become a threat; people dropping dead at feasts or slowing declining into the shadows over the course of months, blamed on bad shellfish or elusive viruses or other medical complications. The methods Snow used to deflect suspicion. The real reason he loved roses so much. The whispers of Snow having a list and no one ever really knowing who would be next.

Poison. The perfect weapon for a snake.

Neither Katniss nor Haymitch looked surprised at the secrets he told, but Finnick knew from the shocked reactions of Katniss’ prep team, Fulvia, and even sometimes Plutarch, who perhaps was surprised how a specific tidbit managed to pass him by, that his words were having the desired effect.

After Finnick finished, they just kept the cameras rolling and rolling and rolling; in the end, he had to be the one to say, “Cut.”

The crew hurried inside to edit the material. Plutarch led Finnick aside for a chat. At first, he simply praised him for what he had done and informed him that it took a great deal of bravery to do something like that, but then pretty soon it became clear that Plutarch was just interested in knowing if there were any other secrets that he had decided to leave out of the propo. With no desire to discuss this with Plutarch, Finnick managed to bring the conversation swiftly enough, and Plutarch had enough tact to take the hint, thank him again for what he did, and leave.

Next, Finnick knew, would be the worst part of the whole mission for him. The time where there was no more job for him to do, no role for him to fulfill, nothing to keep him busy and distracted while the mission was carried out. Now, there was nothing left but to wait. And it was this, he knew, that would be the one thing worse than even having to say all that he had during this propo. It was this that would be liable to break him.


End file.
